


The Call of the Wild

by Shadowcatxx



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, FACE Family, Fantasy, Gay Sex, M/M, Mating, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Medieval, Mpreg, Omega Verse, Politics, Romance, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2018-10-25 05:03:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 32
Words: 193,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10757256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowcatxx/pseuds/Shadowcatxx
Summary: Omegaverse AU. When fifteen-year-old Omega Arthur gets pregnant, he must hide it or be exiled from his clan. His one condolence is that Francis, the exiled Alpha responsible, left him without a word. Arthur needs to escape; Francis needs to belong. But when they're unexpectedly reunited at the Standing Stones, both of their resolves will be tested—for better or worse.Fifteen years later, it's Al and Matt's turn to be tested as they're cast into a world of war, romance, and political scandal.FRUK. RUSAME. PRUCAN. FACE Family. DENNOR. SUFIN. :)





	1. Renegades - Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya
> 
> Please excuse my taking liberties with some character names & relationships. Since the British Isles—excluding England—don't have official Hetalia human-names, I borrowed these from the tumblr account: Ask The U.K. Bros :) (I also decided to include Ireland for historic reasons, and cast him as North Ireland's twin-brother.)  
> This story is an Omegaverse AU.
> 
> For those of you who would prefer to read "Renegades" in Chinese, you can find it here:  
> http://axia1006.lofter.com/post/1ea34b56_1122d8cd
> 
> For those of you who would prefer to read "The Call of the Wild" in Italian, you can find it here: https://efpfanfic.net/viewstory.php?sid=3789584&i=1
> 
> Thank-you very much to the lovely and talented translators, AxiaAndhisMac AND nihil_chan! :D

**THE CALL OF THE WILD**

**PART ONE**  
**RENEGADES**

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):

ENGLAND                 Arthur Kirkland  
FRANCE                    Francis Bonnefoi  
SCOTLAND               Allistor (Scott) Kirkland  
WALES                      Owen Kirkland  
NORTH IRELAND       Liam Kirkland  
IRELAND                   Patrick Kirkland  
AMERICA                  Alfred Kirkland  
CANADA                  Matthew Kirkland

* * *

**THE ISLES**  
**OCTOBER**

Arthur tensed and squeezed his green eyes shut as another wave of Heat-induced fervor rocked him. It made him sweat. It was stuffy in the tiny, one-room storehouse, and his heart was beating fast, pumping hormone-infused blood through every sensitive vein. He tried to keep his mind focused on breathing deeply, meditatively, but a pitiful whine escaped him. The sound brought tears to his eyes as his thoughts shifted to his slicked thighs and aching cock. His body wanted more than what fleeting relief his own trembling ministrations could give it. It wanted release. He couldn't stand the prolonged, repeated torment of getting no satisfaction every month. It had been two years since his first Heat. He wanted—needed—to be mated.

                Eventually, the desire lulled into a throbbing ache and Arthur was able to fall into an uneasy sleep. He curled into a defensive ball in the nest he had tediously arranged on the storehouse floor. It was insulated with soft, tanned hides covered in multicoloured furs, and braced with hand-stitched fleece pillows. His older brothers, despite teasing and complaining, had tried to make Arthur as comfortable as possible, but the small, low-ceilinged shed still felt like a prison. Even though he knew it was necessary, it still felt like a punishment. His parents had had five pups—five!—but Arthur was the only Omega. It might not have been so bad if Arthur's Omega-mother had lived to guide her young son into adolescence, but she had died after giving birth to the twins. Then, six months later, trying to feed his newborns, their Alpha-father had died unexpectedly in a hunting accident. Arthur didn't remember anything about either of his parents; his only memory was his Alpha-father's grizzled corpse with the throat ripped open. He had left behind five helpless pups, the eldest of which was only twelve. Scott (his given-name was Allistor, but Arthur had nicknamed him Scott as a pup) had tried to be the parent his younger brothers had needed, and in many ways he had succeeded with the Alphas, but Arthur was different. Scott didn't know what to do with an Omega-brother, whose _weakness_ he didn't understand. So when Arthur's first Heat had disturbed their little home at thirteen-years-old, Scott had taken him out to the edge of the evergreen forest and locked him in the storehouse, safely out of sight. Two years had passed since then, and now, at fifteen, Arthur had repeated the unpleasant experience twenty-two times.

                In the early morning, Arthur awoke covered in sweat and slick and panting hard. It had been a restless sleep submerged in carnal dreams that merged uncomfortably into reality. He whined loudly, calling-out in pain and sexual frustration as his body thrashed from side-to-side, trying to fight the on-coming, recurring desire to be mated.

                "I want—I want—" he moaned aloud, arching his back as need consumed him. " _O-oh_ —!"

                _I want an Alpha_. _I want a tall_ , _strong_ , _handsome Alpha with a pretty face_ , he fantasized. He closed his eyes in defeat and let the Heat-wave wash over him. He clawed insistently at the nest. _I want him. I want to hear his voice_ _whispering my name_ ; _groaning my name. I want to drive him mad with desire. I want to feel his hands on me_ , _his muscular body pressed against me_ ; _gently at first_ , _then harder_ , _faster_ , _deeper. I want him to take me. I want him to possess me_ , _to make me cry-out. I want him to make me feel special_ , _like the only Omega in the world. I want him to make me mad for him_. _I want him to fill me with his cock_ — _his seed_ — _his pups_.

                " _Gah-ah_!" he gasped, trying and failing to give himself some temporary relief, but it only aroused him more.

                The dream-Alpha filled Arthur's senses. It was erotic. He could smell the salty sweetness of the Alpha's heady sweat, like someone who had been running for a long time. He smelled strongly of pheromones, which pulled a husky moan from Arthur in response. The heat of the Alpha's body mixed with the tang of hormones and the crispness of the late-October wind. The wilderness clung to him. Arthur heard it in his heartbeat, quickened by desire. It was a strong heartbeat, pumping hot blood through his veins. He heard a sharp intake of breath, and then a rasping whisper in an unknown language.

                _Why would I dream of a language I don't know_?

                When Arthur opened his eyes he saw the storehouse door hanging ajar, the lock broken. And there, bathed in silver moonlight, tangles of ash-blonde hair blowing in the wind, stood a young Alpha: tall and strong and handsome.

                The Omega blinked unbidden tears from his eyes. His voice was soft and desperate when he said: "Are you a dream?"

                The Alpha stepped inside and closed the door behind him. " _Non_ ," he said.

                And he took Arthur's reaching hand.


	2. Renegades - Chapter One

**THE ISLES**

**JUNE**

Son-of-a-bitch!" he cursed. The coarse fabric stretched taut over his swollen abdomen, but the buttons refused to meet. It was an ugly olive-green tunic that Arthur had stitched with fibre-spun thread, intending the garment for house-labour, not as a fashion statement. He had already let the sides out, expanding the slight waist; otherwise he couldn't have gotten it on over the boxy smock he wore underneath, which was little more than a recycled sack with sleeves. He tried again, falling onto his back on the low bed as he shimmied from left-to-right, grunting as he strained the thin fabric. If he couldn't even get the buttons fastened, then he would never get his belt on. But if he didn't, Scott would ask questions. It wasn't as if Arthur had a large cache of clothes to choose from, after all, and Scott hated waste.

                As if on-cue, Scott's brogue shouted in warning:

                "If you're not fucking ready in five fucking minutes, I'm dragging you out by your ears, Art! Damned Omega," he sighed irritably. His voice was loud and penetrated the oak walls. He was talking to Owen in the main room. "You'd think he was actually something pretty to look at the way he's been fussing over himself lately," he complained loudly. "He never used to care."

                "He's fifteen now, Scott. That's just how Omegas are," said Owen sagely, though he was an Alpha like Scott. "He's technically an adult by clan-law, which makes him eligible to mate. Omegas come-of-age younger than Alphas, you know that. Alphas have their skills; Omegas have their faces. It's his looks that'll impress an Alpha at the Stones."

                "Aye, well"—Scott intentionally raised his voice—"he's not impressing anyone here acting like a bloody clan-whelp!"

                ( _Clan-whelp_ was a very derogatory term used to describe the privileged pups of the Clan Leader, who, purely through nepotism, were granted the best of everything, and were therefore held in contempt by those born to a lower station in the clan hierarchy.)

                "Face it, Art! No amount of fussing can magic-off freckles!" He barked in laughter. "Forget it. Your best hope is to find an Alpha who prefers mating from behind, that way he won't have to look at you—"

                "Scott!" Owen chastised. But Arthur was barely listening.

                He didn't want to think about Alphas. It was an Alpha who had gotten him into this state, after all.

                He finally managed to fasten a single button, but his victory was short-lived. The instant he straightened and stood, it snapped. "Oh, bloody-hell!" he hissed in frustration.

                He had always been a skinny Omega, but the ragged hand-me-down tunic, which had always been too big for him before, had been the last article of his clothing with a chance at fitting; at hiding his steadily growing mistake. In defeat, he sat on the bed and rubbed habitually at his swollen abdomen. The unborn pup inside was restless. Again. It had prevented him from getting a decent night's sleep for at least a month. And it was hungry. It was _always_ hungry. Arthur would have eaten a stag to himself if allowed. Unfortunately, because of the pack's annual migration, food was being rationed to sustain them all for the journey south. The pack he and his brothers belonged to was a big one; one of the biggest in the whole clan. The pack's hunters—Scott and Owen were both hunters—had combed their territory for a fortnight seeking prey to feed them all. Despite that knowledge, Arthur's stomach growled.

                "I'm sorry," he whispered as he stroked his abdomen. "I can't feed you, not now."

                He felt a kick, as if in protest.

                Feeling annoyed, Arthur struggled to his feet. His body felt heavy, as if he was carrying the weight of rocks instead of a pup. It was a strong, active pup. _And it's big_ , he thought, not for the first time. How else could the size of his abdomen be explained? He had seen pregnant Omegas before, but few had developed as quickly as Arthur had. If someone had questioned his unfashionable choice of attire, his state would have been obvious. Except for his perfectly round belly, the rest of him still looked worryingly underfed. Briefly, he panicked about having to give birth to such a large pup, but he quickly buried the thought. The night-terrors he suffered were bad enough without scaring himself into a panic-attack. It had been six months since his last episode, and for his pup's sake he wanted to stretch it for as long as possible. He had promised to keep himself healthy for the duration of his pregnancy, regardless of the strange looks his brothers gave him for changing his lifestyle. It had been over eight months now, and it hadn't been easy. His brothers were suspicious of his behaviour, he knew, but fortunately they blamed it on his coming-of-age.  It was lucky that none of them would ever expect their introverted, law-abiding Omega-brother of getting himself pregnant before he was pair-bonded. It was illegal by clan-law, the punishment for which was exile.

                It was why Arthur couldn't risk his brothers finding out, no matter what. Owen might be sympathetic, but Scott would be furious. (The twins, Liam and Patrick, being only ten-years-old, wouldn't care.) If Arthur's secret was found out, not only would it effect him, but it would hurt his family's reputation. They wouldn't be exiled, like Arthur, but any hope Scott had harboured of climbing the ranks would vanish. No one would trust the ability of an Alpha who couldn't even protect his brother, and that included the clan's other Omegas. If the pack discovered that Arthur was illegally pregnant, Scott would take the blame and his chance of finding an Omega to mate would all but disappear. Because if Scott couldn't protect his own Omega-brother, how on earth could he be trusted to protect a mate and pups? Scott might have been an inconsiderate dick to Arthur most of the time, but he was still the head of their family, and, technically, the only _parent_ that Arthur had ever known. The last thing he wanted was for his brothers to suffer for his mistake.

                "Art!" Scott hollered impatiently. He banged on the bedchamber wall.

                "I'm coming! Just give me a minute!" Arthur replied; half-annoyed, half-frantic.

                Defeated, he discarded the tunic and grabbed an old tartan instead, twisting it over his smock and knotting it at his pelvis to hide his abdomen. It hung in sun-bleached folds from his skinny frame, but it was the best he could do on short-notice. Quickly, he packed his few belongings into a satchel, taking especial care of an apothecary box with a false bottom. He had acquired it eight months ago from a hedgewitch in the valley, along with the knowledge of how to brew several potions that would aid him in hiding and soothing his pregnancy. There was a sleeping draught, an antidote for nausea, and an opioid for pain relief, but the most vital potion numbed his scent. It was important that he took it twice daily, because otherwise his brothers would be able to smell the obvious change in his hormones.

                (As an evolutionary necessity, Alphas had incredibly sensitive noses for tracking and hunting; Omegas had sensitive ears for defense and the benefit of their crying pups.)

                Arthur still thought it was a miracle that his brothers hadn't smelled the Alpha on him when he had returned from his Heat on the night he had conceived, though a bath in scalding saltwater had thoroughly cleansed him. On the outside, at least. But he couldn't spend nine uncomfortable months submerged in saltwater, which is why the potion was needed. Before he packed his supply of it into the false bottom of the box, he took a dose just to be safe. He didn't know when he would be able to sneak another as long as they were travelling. In retrospect, it was a good thing that he was forced to wear Scott's old tartan, because the Alpha's pungent scent coated Arthur's skin, curtailing suspicion.

                He locked the apothecary box and stuffed it into his satchel just as Scott's shadow proceeded him.

                Their home was tiny, but, though his Alpha-brothers had to share rooms, Arthur had a room to himself since he was the only Omega. It was small, but Scott's presence made it feel even smaller. He stood just across the threshold with his muscular arms crossed over a wide chest. He looked like a hunter, a warrior. He was tall and broad with long, strong limbs, and he possessed a physical prowess that emanated self-confidence. Few of the pack's hunters were as successful as he was, and few of their fighters were more revered. There was something in Scott's Celtic features that he and Arthur shared, but otherwise they were opposites. The only trait that they had both—all—inherited from their Omega-mother was their eyes, the shape and colour, which was a fierce Lincoln-green. Those luminous eyes pierced Arthur now with a good deal of impatience as Scott stared. Arthur felt his heartbeat pound as he waited for his eldest brother to speak, fearing, as he had for over eight months, that today would be the unlucky day Scott found out.

                In Omega-like (but un-Arthur-like) submission, he bowed his head.

                " _That's_ what we've been waiting for?" Scott looked at his old tartan anticlimactically. Then he rolled his eyes. "C'mon, freckle-face, it's time to go."

* * *

This tastes like absolute pish," Scott complained. Despite that, he took another bite. "It's burnt fucking black!"

                Arthur scowled. "I like it this way," he lied in self-defense.

                It was late. The pack had been walking across-country all day, steadily growing in numbers as other packs in the vicinity joined the migration south. In a few days, every clan on the Isles would meet at the Standing Stones to celebrate the Summer Solstice. It was a big festival, wherein alliances were formed; wherein pack-members would swear fealty to their Clan Leaders; wherein un-bonded Alphas and Omegas who had come-of-age in the past year would be allowed to find mates. Inter-clan breeding was encouraged because it strengthened bloodlines and family alliances, but, even so, most members still preferred to mate within their own clan. It had been twenty-five years since the last clan feud ended, but one generation was not long enough to forget the pain, deceit, and suspicion. It was not long enough to forgive _the Hunts_ , when rival clans had deliberately hunted and murdered the pups of their enemies. It had been a very dark time, one Arthur was glad to have missed. It had finally ended when one of the Clan Leader's Alpha-pups had abducted his rival's Omega-pup and committed suicide after raping and killing him. He had only been fifteen-years-old; the Omega had been thirteen. The clans had come to an uneasy peace after that, and began the trend of inter-clan mating in an attempt to mend past wounds and prevent future ones. But the packs were weary of change. Arthur's Omega-mother had been the first in his genealogy to mate outside of her clan. In fact, she had gone even further and mated an Alpha from the Mainland, which was rare. If Arthur's Alpha-father had been a weak Alpha, the couple might have been ostracized, but he had distinguished himself quickly. He had been strong, a good hunter and a talented fighter, and the clan had revered him for it in much the same way they revered Scott now.

                "I can't eat this," Scott said, making no effort to stop. He talked with a full mouth. "You're so fucking useless, Art. I pity the poor blighter who takes you home. Your cooking is shite; your sewing is shoddy; and you couldn't catch a fucking coney to save your life."

                Arthur felt himself tense in self-defense. Deliberately, he swallowed too big a mouthful of meat, to prove that he liked it, and started choking. He needed Owen to pound him on the back before he spit it out, to which Scott rolled his eyes, no doubt irritated at Arthur's waste of food.

                "Oh, aye. You're a right fierce one, you are, freckle-face," he said condescendingly. "Forget your mate; I pity your poor pups."

                The secretly pregnant Omega clutched his midsection protectively and glared at Scott. The Alpha's offhand comment angered him, probably because it seconded Arthur's biggest fear: that he would be a horrible Omega-father to his pup, unable to provide for it. He didn't need Scott to remind him, as if the self-degrading thought didn't already haunt him.

                Scott was sitting across the campfire, leaning against a gnarled tree, and sucking the marrow from a bone. The twins flanked him, both asleep on his lap. The three of them looked so alike, with definable red hair and pale skin. _The twins_ _have way more freckles than I do_ , Arthur thought of Liam and Patrick, annoyed at Scott's preference for them. (Scott never tried to hide the fact that the twins were his favourites. He had raised them from infancy, after all.) A few feet away, Owen was tuning a stringed instrument to avoid getting involved in Scott and Arthur's argument. To an outsider, Owen might have looked adopted. He was significantly darker than his brothers, with smooth olive-toned skin and dark brown curls, but even he had inherited their Omega-mother's green eyes. He was strong, though there was a subtle elegance in his figure and movements that his brothers lacked. Arthur might have inherited that same grace if he wasn't so clumsy. He was the only blonde in the family, like his Alpha-father had been. But that's where the similarities between he and the Mainlander ended. Arthur had a delicate, faerie-like body. As a pup it had been cute, but adolescence had not changed his looks as much as he had hoped. His delicate body had not filled-out, nor had his features defined. He remained skinny and soft, like an underdeveloped pup. He wasn't tall, or strong, and he had suffered from mysterious panic-attacks for as long as he could remember.

                _I hope you inherit your Papa's genes_ , _not mine_ , he thought to his unborn pup. _I hope you're tall and strong like him_ , _like your uncles. I hope you're healthy. I hope you get those pretty blue eyes._

                "Oi, freckle-face!" Scott snapped. "Did you hear me?"

                Arthur blinked. He was absently rubbing his abdomen. "What—?"

                "Fuck, you're useless," Scott repeated. He pointed to the river. "Go fetch some water."

                Arthur glanced between his lazy Alpha-brothers, two of whom were sleeping, and one who was avoiding eye-contact. "Why me?" he challenged.

                "Because you're the one who's been shirking-off all day, you bloody clan-whelp."

                It wasn't a lie; not from Scott's perspective. The Omega had had a hard time keeping up with his brothers all day, which meant that the family had fallen behind the whole pack. But he couldn't defend himself with the truth, so he was forced to suffer his brothers' complaints. He couldn't explain why he was moving so slowly, or why his entire body ached, or why he felt exhausted and lightheaded. Eventually, Scott had taken Arthur's satchel and added it to his own load, growling at Arthur for being weak. The twins had poked fun at him, jogging circles around him like gnats. After that, Arthur had been left alone. They hadn't asked him to do anything except to keep walking. He hadn't been asked to help scout a place to camp, or fetch firewood, or unpack their rations. The only thing they had decided he was capable of was cooking—because none of them liked to—which Arthur had done less than satisfactorily, if Scott was to be believed.

                "Are you ill?" Owen asked as Arthur struggled to his feet. "You look pale, Art. And you're all sweaty," he said, feeling Arthur's forehead. "You're not going into Heat, are you?"

                It was a legitimate concern, since there was nowhere to retreat to while traveling. If Arthur went into Heat on the road, the family would have to leave the migration and find somewhere to lock Arthur for three to five days, which would make them late to the gathering. It would be unavoidable, but his Alpha-brothers wouldn't thank him for it. It had happened once before, two years ago, when Arthur was thirteen. _At least_ , he consoled himself, _that's impossible now_. The absence of Heats was the only benefit of being pregnant in Arthur's opinion, not that he hadn't had to fake it since last December.

                _I'll be so glad when this is all over_. But he knew that was untrue. _When this is over_ —he hugged his middle— _I'll have a pup to provide for_ , _and I won't have my brothers to help me._

                As soon as his pup was born, to avoid further trouble, Arthur would have to leave the pack.

                "I'm going," he growled at Scott, taking a flask.

                In a show of displeasure, he clenched his fists and marched indignantly to the riverside. There, however, his anger dissolved and he sunk to his knees. The water was cold, but the night was hot. He reached beneath the surface, letting the flask fill. He stayed there for a long time, until his submerged hands were stiff with cold. Then, safely out of sight of the campsite, he hung his head and cried.

* * *

By the time Arthur returned to the campsite, his brothers had unpacked several sleeping-rolls and were stretched out across them, taking up so much space that there was hardly room left for Arthur. It wasn't as comfortable a bed as his at home, which was a wood-and-bone frame covered in tanned hides and piled high with furs, but it was preferable to sleeping on the ground. Not that the Alphas seemed bothered. Scott and Owen were each lying on their sides, Scott facing east, Owen facing west, with the twins squeezed safely between them. The redheaded pups slept like rocks and probably hadn't even flinched when moved. Patrick's paper-soft snores were muted against Liam's back, his red head pillowed on his arms; Liam snuggled close to Owen, drooling on him. Scott looked like he was asleep, but he grunted in acknowledgement when Arthur laid down, keeping space between them. It meant lying on the edge of the sleeping-roll, but he didn't want to be too close to Scott lest the Alpha discover his changed shape. As a precaution, he didn't undress to his underclothes either; he kept everything on, including the tartan. The fire had burnt down to embers, and he watched the soft red glow as he settled down, trying to find a position to sleep in that didn't agitate his unborn pup. His pup was restless, as always. It kicked as Arthur shifted, but eventually he gave up.

                _Go to sleep_ , he begged it, feeling the day's long journey gnaw at his energy reserve. He felt completely spent. All he wanted to do was sleep, and he wished more than anything that his pup would let him. _Please_ , _my wee darling. I know that you're still hungry_ , _but please just give me a few hours of rest_.

                "Art—?" Scott's voice was gruff, sleep-heavy. "Are you cold, little brother?"

                Arthur stopped moving and closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep. He didn't want to talk to Scott, afraid of an argument. He stiffened as Scott leant close enough to study the Omega; Arthur could feel his body-heat. No doubt, he wondered why Arthur had chosen not to undress, but Omegas didn't produce as much body-heat as Alphas did, so he probably did believe Arthur was cold. He almost flinched when Scott's callused hand tentatively felt his forehead, testing his temperature. _He thinks I'm asleep_ , he knew. Scott rarely touched him so tenderly. It reminded Arthur of his childhood, when Scott and Owen had tried to soothe him by touch whenever he was sad, or sick, or scared.

                Suddenly, he recalled a time long ago when he had fallen through some thin ice and caught the cold-death, which was often fatal, especially for young pups. Arthur had been six-years-old. The pack's medicine-man had come and gone and pronounced the skinny Omega-pup a goner. "There's no hope for him, he's too small and weak," he had reported to Scott. But he and Owen had been determined to prove him wrong; to keep Arthur alive. They had stayed up all night, taking turns holding Arthur and force-feeding him warm milk. Scott had stoked the fire while Owen had paced, rubbing Arthur's back as he repeated: "Don't fall asleep, Art. You can't fall asleep." Then, when it was his turn, Scott had wrapped his arms around Arthur and held him close to his body. The Alpha had only been thirteen-years-old, but even then he had been a survivor. And he expected Arthur to be one, too.

                "You're alright, Art. Don't be scared, little brother, you're going to be fine," he told his only Omega-brother. "You're a Kirkland, aye? You're a fighter just like the rest of us. We don't lie down for anyone, not even for the Reaper. You're strong, Art, I know you are. I know it because you're my blood. Are you cold, little brother? I'll keep you warm," he had promised, blanketing Arthur in his cloak. The scent had soothed Arthur then, as it did now.

                Arthur was surprised to find that same cloak—the one Scott had been wearing all day—draped over him now like a blanket. It was heavy, but soft. And best of all, it was familiar. It smelled like his brother and of home. He didn't want Scott to know he was awake, but he couldn't help burying his nose in the weathered fabric, which had been like a security-blanket for him throughout his childhood. Inadvertently, tears pricked his eyes.

                _Thank-you_ , he thought, relaxing under the old cloak's weight. It felt nice to be surrounded, even if he was too hot. It made him feel safe. His pup might have agreed, or it might have been instinctively responding to Arthur's calm heartbeat. Either way, it settled, and the exhausted Omega drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep.

* * *

 Arthur dreamt of the storehouse and of the blue-eyed Alpha who had taken his virginity; who had given him what he had needed, begged for; who had made him feel wanted, precious even, for the first time in his life. Then, who had left him unexpectedly and unwittingly pregnant, never to be seen again.

                Arthur yelped when Scott shook him awake.

                "Get up, we're leaving," he said bluntly.

                As Arthur pushed himself up, he realized that their campsite had already been packed and his brothers were ready to go. In the distance, he could see other campsites already cold, their occupants long gone, and realized that his brothers had waited, letting Arthur sleep for as long as possible. The sunrise was blinding, like liquid-gold rising from the depths of the damp, foggy moors. He accepted Owen's hand, which hauled him gracelessly to his feet, and blinked sleep from his eyes. He was still wearing Scott's cloak. "Here, Art," said Patrick, tossing him an over-baked scone for breakfast. Arthur ate it slowly as he walked. More than once Scott barked at him to hurry up, and threatened to carry him if he fell behind, but Arthur noted that their pace was much slower, more considerate, than yesterday.

                By midday, they caught up to the packs and shared in a communal dinner of tea, fish, and potatoes; someone had even baked oatcakes. Arthur watched the packs' pups running and playing, excited for the festival. They laughed and tackled each other, sharing their treats and other treasures. _They really are cute_. Arthur smiled at two wrestling brunettes. The boys' Omega-father yelled at them to stop it, which they ignored. Then they whined playfully as their Alpha-father scooped them into his arms, fighting their childish protests, and pretended to "gobble them up!" They shrieked and giggled as he kissed them, drawing an indulgent smile from the Omega, who watched his family fondly.

                "Art?"

                Arthur flinched. Owen cocked his head and then knelt. "Are you okay? You've been really quiet, and I don't just mean today," he said. His tone was kind, but curiosity—and concern—lurked under the surface. Owen was subtle, he always had been, but he was dangerously unyielding. He wouldn't stop until his curiosity had been sated. So when Arthur merely shrugged, failing to reply, he followed the Omega's line-of-sight and found the happy family. Satisfied, the Alpha sighed. "You'll get your chance to be a father, Art," he said, misreading the Omega's interest. "You're fifteen now, old enough to be mated. Maybe you'll find a mate at the Stones, yeah? Don't worry, you'll have pups soon."

                Owen smiled, but Arthur couldn't meet his eyes. In a small voice, he said: "I know."


	3. Renegades - Chapter Two

Francis dodged a fury of hand-thrown projectiles as he ran for the trees, covering his retreat. His pursuers chased him to the edge, then cursed loudly in defeat, yelling insults that penetrated the dense forest. But Francis didn't care; he had escaped. He grinned in self-congratulations as he followed the familiar trek back to his campsite. It was located deep in the forest, in a small cave upwind of the Standing Stones, which stood on a hill surrounded by the trees. He had been camped there for nearly a month, waiting for the Island clans to gather for the Summer Solstice. It had been an indecisive battle for Francis, who secretly disliked the Islanders, but he couldn't return to the Mainland; not if he wanted to live. It had been over a year since he escaped, and almost that long since he had sought refuge with the Islanders. But being an outsider, a Mainlander who barely spoke the native language(s), he had been unwelcome, even at fifteen-years-old. He was sixteen now, an adult by clan-law, and knew that the older he got the less willing the clans would be to adopt him. His only chance was to reconnect with his mate, the Omega he had met and mated eight months ago. The one he had fled from afterward, afraid of the consequences.

                It had been an accident. He had been stealing food from the family; he hadn't intended to stumble upon the Omega in Heat. Nor had he intended to spend the next forty-eight hours consumed by him and mating him, but that's what had happened. He had never seen an Omega in Heat before—most were kept safely away in private rooms—and had been helpless to the sudden urge that overpowered him. Only when the sweet Heat-induced spell had broken did Francis realize his mistake. He had ran. Before the Omega had woken he had left, afraid of being found. It was illegal to mate without the blessing of the Clan Leader, or one of his pack representatives ( _that's such a stupid law_ , Francis thought), the punishment for which was severe. At first, he had thought it would hurt his chances of integrating into a clan if someone found out he had broken the law, but the more he was rejected and chased off, the more he realized that being mated to a clan-member was the only way they would let him stay. _Stupid_ , _suspicious_ , _inbred Islanders_ , he grumbled. Now, finding and accepting that Omega as his mate was his only hope.

                Francis reached the cave and ducked inside. He had tried to make it as comfortable as possible, but he didn't own much, so it was barren. He pushed his hood back and dropped the sack he had stolen on a makeshift bed of wool, emptying the contents. A half-dozen scones spilled out and Francis groaned. "Blah!" he spat. He had been hoping for something tastier. "How can they consider this food?" He inspected a fist-sized pastry, trying to convince himself that he wasn't hungry enough to eat it, but his stomach growled loudly in protest. _I wish I could hunt_ , he thought, taking a martyr-like bite. He was a good hunter, fast and able, but it was illegal to hunt within a ten-mile radius of the sacred Standing Stones because of the ceremony. ( _Another stupid_ _fucking law._ ) He could have ignored the law and hunted small game—the forest was plentiful—but he couldn't risk being caught. If he was accused of poaching on consecrated ground, the clans would never accept him. If he wanted to belong, he had to play by their rules—stupid or otherwise. So he sighed in resignation and ate the scones, vegetables, and salted fish he had stolen, while dreaming of the day he could once again cook for himself.

                _I hate this place_ , he thought of the Isles. _I just want to go home._

                If he was home, he would be readying for the Cérémonie de L'âge Adulte, the coming-of-age ceremony, since he was now sixteen-years-old. He would be presented as an adult and officially choose a mate to be pair-bonded with. And, given his status (ex-status now), he would have been able to choose whomever he had wanted and nobody would have refused him. He had been— _still am_!—a very eligible Alpha.

                _I would've chosen the prettiest Omega_ , he daydreamed as he chewed (and chewed and chewed— _gods_ , _this is awful_!). _I would've been a very good mate to him. I would've taken good care of him_ , _protected him_ , _spoiled him. He would've wanted for nothing_ , _not with my high status. We would've been the envy of everyone. And our pups_ —he smiled longingly— _our pups would've been the most beautiful pups in the whole clan._

                Instead, Francis was stuck searching for the young Omega he had inadvertently mated, because his survival now depended on it. It wasn't how he had pictured his future, but at least the Omega hadn't been unattractive. In fact, if anything about his daydream came true, it was the look of the green-eyed Omega. _I've never seen such striking eyes before_ , he remembered. Nor such a beautiful, delicate-boned face. And body. Francis shivered in desire as he pictured the Omega's delicious body, so thin, yet so unexpectedly strong—so durable. _If nothing else_ , _at least he's gorgeous_ , he consoled himself, pretending that he hadn't felt totally bereft since leaving the Omega; pretending that he didn't ache for the Omega's touch, the feel of his body; pretending that he didn't dream each night of kissing every single freckle, leaving visible marks so that everyone would know whom he belonged to.

                Francis shook his head. It wouldn't be long. He had traveled to the Standing Stones knowing that every pack on the Isles would be meeting there soon, which meant his Omega as well.

                _My Omega_ —? he wondered. He didn't dislike the possessive pronoun. In fact, he rather preferred it.

                _I'll find you_. He didn't even know the Omega's name, but it didn't matter. It wouldn't change a thing. Francis was nothing if not a survivor. _I'll find you and own you. I'll mate you so well you'll beg me to keep you. You'll be mine soon. Even if I have to lie_ , _I'll make you fall in love with me. And then we'll live happily-fucking-ever-after._

                Because that's what he needed; that's what he wanted. And Francis Bonnefoi _always_ got what he wanted.

* * *

The next day, Francis forced himself to rise early and stumble half-blindly to the river, where he plunged into the cold water. It sent a horrible, bone-chilling shiver through his entire body, but he scrubbed viciously at his reddening skin. He hated to be unclean. By the time he crawled out, he was covered in goose-bumps. " _Gah_!" He shook himself off and finger-combed his shoulder-long curls. _Why is it so fucking cold here_? _It's almost July_! It was the dampness, he knew. The mornings were cool and foggy, or soaked if it had rained. Or was still raining. Like today. The sky was cloudy and customarily stone-grey, and a light drizzle was falling. Francis sighed and returned to the cave, where he tugged on his last decent shirt. It smelled of wood-smoke, but at least it was dry. His clothes were faded and weathered; he had been recycling the same articles for over a year. _I need new clothes_. _I look like a fucking vagabond._ He pulled his curls back into a blue ribbon, which was sadly the nicest thing he owned. Then he sauntered off to the Standing Stones to make a good first—no; second—no; third impression.

                The Islanders seemed unperturbed by the rain. Francis dodged dozens of tents and fire-pits and young pups, who laughed and chased each other around the decorated campsites. Despite the festival's peace-keeping undertones, the clans remained segregated. No Alpha had erected his family's tent within ten feet of a rival clan-member. Francis lost himself in the crowd, half of whom were happily—or abrasively—drunk. As he wandered aimlessly, stealing treats and confusing people by smiling at them (they, wondering which clan he belonged to), he searched for his green-eyed Omega. He tried to track him by scent, but it was hard. There were too many barriers, mostly Alpha-like; the Omegas' scents were pale in comparison. Then there were the scents of the festival itself: herbs, spices, and smoked-food. _Half of these people smell like sweat and beer_ , he thought unkindly, _and the other half smell like scotch and cider._ There were dozens of pups who smelled like sweet-milk; and unmated youths, like himself, who smelled like hormones. As such, it was high-noon before he finally found the scent he was looking for.

                It wasn't his Omega's scent, but the scent of his blood-relatives. _Alphas._ Francis found them camped on the edge of a circle of silver birch trees, engulfed in a heated argument. Two little redheads were snarling at each other, each trying to break free of their older brothers to attack the other. They looked too similar to be anything but twins. "Liam!" one growled, kicking and clawing at nothing, while the other yelled: "Pat!" and bared his teeth in displeasure. The other Alphas—older brothers—struggled to hold back the wriggling pups while they snarled threats at the twins and at each other.

                _They're just one big happy family_ , Francis thought sarcastically.

                He didn't see his Omega, nor did he smell his presence. In fact, he couldn't distinguish his Omega's scent on _anything_. It made him wonder if he was wrong and if this wasn't actually his Omega's family. _Gods_ , _I hope it's not_ , he thought, surveying the fierce dysfunction. One of the twin's sank his teeth into his brother's forearm, causing such an angry growl to erupt from the eldest that even Francis flinched. It wasn't until he turned to leave, readying to search elsewhere, that he spotted his green-eyed Omega emerging from the forest.

                Francis' stomach flipped; he swallowed. Paralyzed, he watched his Omega's meandering advance, eyes going to the swagger of his hips. A woven basket bobbed as he walked, skinny arm flung over the top. He looked good, better than in Francis' memory despite the unstylish rags he wore. He was a perfect rose among weeds. But he looked tired. He kept his gaze downcast and his wheat-blonde head bowed, not in submission but in defense. It wasn't the innocent seduction he had greeted Francis with before. There was no invitation in his posture, only tension. There was nothing remotely friendly about his arched shoulders, or the way he deliberately avoided anyone who came too close to him, to suggest he would be receptive to Francis' flirtation, or even acknowledge his presence. But the instant he saw the blue-eyed Alpha, he froze, and his Lincoln-green eyes went wide in shock.

                In disbelief.

                In—horror?

                He stopped so fast that he dropped the basket. Then his lips formed a silent word: _No_.

                Overeager, Francis took a step forward. It was reflex. The desire to protect and comfort his frightened Omega was strong. It was pure instinct. The need to touch him, even more so. But it was the wrong thing to do. He had barely blurted: " _Attendez_!" before the Omega—his Omega—was hurrying back to his brothers, skinny arms wrapped tightly around his midsection, looking suddenly ill. The basket and its contents lay needlessly forgotten in the grass. Francis followed him, his hand outstretched. " _S'il vous plâit_ —!" he called, but the Omega—his Omega—pushed fitfully past his Alpha-brothers into their lopsided tent and disappeared.

                Francis stared, dumbfounded. He had expected his Omega to be surprised, of course, especially since Francis had left him without a word, but he hadn't expected him to be afraid. _Is he afraid of me_? Francis felt like he had been punched in the gut. The Omega's unflattering reaction left him winded and confused. _I thought he liked me. I thought he wanted me. Why else would he have let me_ —

                "Did you want something?" barked an unfriendly voice.

                The Alphas had stopped arguing and were staring at him guardedly in suspicion (trying to decide which clan he belonged to, no doubt). The thick brogue pulled Francis out of shock. Briefly, he pictured himself charging past the four Alphas and forcing himself into the tent where his Omega was hiding, but, apt at self-preservation, he discarded the thought. _Four Alpha-brothers_. _Of course it had to be_ four _Alpha-brothers_. Two of which looked rather dangerous, both big and hot-tempered. Even the young twins glared at him.  So, instead of a suicide-charge, Francis simply shook his head and backed off, making a mental note of the campsite's location so that he could return later.

                _Because I'm not leaving_ , he decided, eyeing the tent's flap. _Not now that I've found you_. _I need you._

But more than that—

_I want you._

* * *

Arthur tried to hug his knees, but his abdomen was too big, so he sat awkwardly on a pile of sleeping-rolls. He tried to fight the panic-attack creeping through him, but it was useless. Even as he muttered reassurances to himself, he could feel his chest tighten and tears flood his eyes. _Why is he here_? he thought, rocking slightly back-and-forth. He hugged his middle tighter, rubbing vigorously in an attempt to calm himself. His unborn pup must have sensed the change in his heartbeat, because it kicked back in defiance. Arthur winced. _Why_? _Why_ —? _He can't be here_! _He can't know_! _I thought I'd never see him again_ , _but now he's here_! _Oh_ , _gods_! _He can't know_!

                "Art?" Scott called.

                "A-aye!" he replied, high-pitched. "I-I-I—I'm fine!"

                Quickly, he readjusted the lay of his garments as Scott entered.

                "Ah, fuck. Are you having a panic-attack?" He sighed deeply, then sat down and wrapped an arm around the shivering Omega's shoulders, drawing him close. "It's okay, little brother. I'm here. Just relax. It's okay," he repeated, squeezing Arthur's bicep thoughtlessly hard. Arthur felt it bruise, but he didn't care. What he cared about was Scott's proximity. The Alpha was dangerously close to discovering his secret, yet Arthur felt his body respond habitually, glad for the comfort of Scott's fraternal ministrations. He leant in and rested his forehead on his brother's broad shoulder and breathed in his familiar musk scent, listening to Scott's mildly annoyed voice as he talked.

                "What's wrong, hm?" he asked when Arthur had finally calmed. "Was it that Alpha lurking about? That blue-eyed one with the pretty face?" He chuckled. "I wouldn't worry about him. He didn't look capable of much, too posh. Fuck, aye? If it weren't for the scruff"—he rubbed his own chin in example—"I'd have thought he was an Omega," he teased. When Arthur failed to reply, Scott's nonchalant tone changed, becoming a low and protective growl. "Art? Did that Alpha do something to you? Did he approach you? Scare you? Did he touch you?"

                Arthur swallowed a relapse of panic and, mustering his battered pride, severed contact with Scott.

                "No," he lied, wiping his wet cheeks as he stood. He pretended to fix his shirt, embarrassed by his outburst. Then he forced a smile to prove he was fine, dismissing Scott's concern.

                "It's fine. I'm fine. I've never seen that Alpha before in my life."

* * *

 Arthur stayed embarrassingly close to Scott and Owen for the rest of the day, only half-heartedly joining the spirited festivities. He barely drank, but he ate everything he could get his hands on, feeding his pup all the treats he had been denied for months. He kept a wary eye out for the Mainlander, who was lurking in the crowd, never far; whom had so recklessly approached him before. Maybe the clan-laws were different wherever he came from, but on the Isles it was considered suspicious behaviour to approach a stranger so casually without an introduction, especially an unclaimed Omega. That, and wandering uninvited onto an Alpha's territory—even a temporary campsite—was a good way to get oneself attacked.

                _Bloody foreigner_ , Arthur thought, spotting the blue-eyed Alpha in the throng. He was even better looking than what Arthur remembered, which wasn't to discredit Arthur's memory (though he _had_ been submerged in a Heat-induced stupor). Arthur wanted to think badly of the cocky Alpha, but his own vanity prevented it. _Oh_ , _he's gorgeous_! Scott was right: the foreigner was an Alpha with Omega-like beauty, an excellent specimen of their race. And what he lacked in size he more than made up for in attitude. There was nothing in his sanguine confidence to suggest that he was anything less than a prize. And the clans' Omegas seemed to agree. Those who didn't flock to him—pretending to bump him, or suddenly lose their balance as they passed him, apologizing cutely when he caught them—whispered to their friends and siblings, giggling and blushing when the Alpha looked at them. _Bloody clan-whelp_ , Arthur glared at him. But he felt a flush of envy rise in his cheeks whenever the Alpha smiled back at the Omegas. Arthur blamed his reaction on hormones. He _was_ carrying the Alpha's pup, after all; not that the Alpha knew. Arthur was so very afraid of him discovering that fact, which is why he had ran. But now, watching the clans' Omegas drool over the handsome  foreigner, he wished that he could tell everyone. It would give him exclusive rights to the blue-eyed Alpha, he and nobody else. And nobody would be able to dispute his claim.

                Arthur shook his head. He hated how possessive he felt. When the Alpha suddenly caught his eye and smiled at him—a brilliant, white-toothed smile—Arthur deliberately turned away.

                _At least he's not trying to approach me_ , he thought, in relief and disappointment.

                As long as Arthur stayed close to his older brothers, he felt safe. Scott and Owen were his shields.

                Owen didn't seem perturbed by the Omega's clinging to his side, but Scott was getting annoyed. He made no attempt to lower his voice when he criticized Arthur's apparent insecurity. He had always believed in tough-love and facing one's fears head-on, and he made a note to draw unwanted attention to Arthur, who was trying hard to remain anonymous. Even so, Scott never left Arthur's side. He and Owen both seemed to misinterpret Arthur's social anxiety for trepidation. Now that he was of-age he was eligible to mate and be pair-bonded, which meant that everywhere he went unclaimed Alphas were sizing him up. It was an uncomfortable experience. He felt like he was on display. The Alphas' eyes looked hungry, especially the young and eager ones. Arthur had to restrain himself from clutching at his abdomen, instinctively wanting to protect his unborn pup every time an Alpha got too close.

                _Is it because I'm pregnant_? he wondered. _Is that why they're all so interested in me_ , _because they can sense that I'm fertile_? It was a disconcerting revelation. The Alphas couldn't smell his pregnancy because of the potion, but perhaps they could instinctively sense it. _That would explain why they keep looking at me like that_. Intentionally, he shied away from a particularly vocal group.

                "It's because they like your looks, Art," said Owen when he noticed Arthur's confusion. "They think you're pretty."

                "I'm not," Arthur denied.

                Owen cocked an eyebrow. "Why do you think that? Is it because that's what Scott tells you? He's just teasing you, Art, trying to toughen you up. But even he can see that you're a very attractive Omega, freckles and all. Don't be so shy," he advised. Gently he lifted Arthur's chin. "C'mon, little brother, head up. Be proud. Let them all gawk at what they can't have."

                The five brothers found a decent place to sit for the nightly ceremony, which began at sundown. It was right in front of the roaring fire, just outside of the circle of Standing Stones. Arthur sat in the middle, enjoying a skewer of spiced venison. Scott had already commented on his increased appetite—"Slow down, Art, or you'll get fat!"—but he said it with a teasing grin. Even Arthur had to laugh at the irony as he licked his fingers. For once, his brothers were all in good spirits simultaneously. Scott and Owen were happily drunk, and the twins had found friends to play games with. Arthur watched the traditional offerings and performances, which included feats of strength and agility, and the dances, which he always declined to join. (Scott shooed off a terribly persistent Alpha who tried to pull Arthur up.) He was actually starting to enjoy himself, watching the clan-members take loyalty oaths, until Liam's high-pitched cry cut through the din.

                Scott leapt to his feet as if he had been scorched and pushed through the gathering crowd. Arthur exchanged a worried look with Owen as they both stood for a better view. Standing on his toes, Arthur could see Liam crouched on the ground, clutching his left shoulder. His lip was upturned, trying to be brave, but he whimpered in pain. Patrick stood over his twin, yelling and growling at the Alpha-pup whom he accused of inflicting the damage. Like an attack-dog, Patrick lunged suddenly at him, his fists beating furiously in angry retaliation. The other pack's pup fought back just as energetically until his Alpha-father pulled him back.

                "Pat, stop it!" Scott ordered as he grabbed Patrick around the belly.

                Patrick yelled and cursed, spitting as he did. "He did it on purpose! I saw him!" he screeched.

                Owen sighed. "I'd better go over. Scott looks ready to lunge at that pup's father. Wait here, Art."

                In reflex, Arthur grabbed Owen's sleeve. "I'll come with you. I can help."

                "No," Owen said, prying off Arthur's fingers. "If it turns into a brawl, I don't want you anywhere near it. Just wait here. I'll be back in a minute."

                As soon as Owen left, the blue-eyed foreigner sat down, like Arthur knew he would.

                Quickly, Arthur shimmied to the left, his posture tensing. "Get away from me," he warned. The Alpha looked hurt, but the Omega ignored the (false) display of vulnerability. Instead, he turned sideways, crossed his skinny arms, and showed the Alpha his back. The message was clear, but—predictably—the foreigner was either too arrogant or too dense to take the hint.

                "I'm Francis," he said cheerfully.

                "I don't care," Arthur replied coldly. "Leave me alone."

                Arthur could feel Francis' body coiling closer, leaning around him to try and see his face. "Can I at least know your name?" he asked. He spoke English with an elegant accent, which somehow made every mispronunciation of his tongue sound exotic, charming. His voice was sinuous, like his gestures. But the Omega trusted neither, too certain it was all an elaborate act. " _S'il vous plâit_?" he smiled enticingly, his fingers inching closer to Arthur. "We _are_ mates—"

                "No, we're not," Arthur said sternly.

                Agitated, he leapt to his feet. Smoothly, Francis followed.

                "Look," Arthur raised his hands, as if he thought Francis might pounce, "I want nothing to do with you, aye? So just leave me alone."

                A furious spark, like white-lightening, flashed in Francis' blue eyes, but it was quickly masked. Arthur almost missed it. But he didn't, and it scared him. He glanced at his brothers, too far away to be any comfort. Francis inhaled and forced himself to keep smiling. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said, though it would have been more believable if his fists weren't clenched; if his voice wasn't strained. (He wasn't good at hiding his feelings. His handsome face was too expressive.) "I just want to know your name."

                "No," Arthur refused, at the same time Owen called:

                "Arthur—?"

                Arthur cursed at the sudden triumph plastered to Francis' face. "Arthur," he repeated seductively, licking his lips before Owen reached them. Arthur glared daggers at him, warning him to keep quiet, but the Alpha only smirked.

                _Bloody-hell_ , _he's infuriating_! he internally seethed. His pup kicked in reply, which Arthur took as agreement.

                "Is everything okay, Art?" Owen asked, glancing between he and Francis.

                "Fine," said Arthur stiffly. Without breaking eye-contact with Francis, he stepped back into Owen's shadow. "But I'm tired. Take me back to the tent."

* * *

Francis watched Arthur go with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he was feisty and gorgeous. On the other hand, he was a nasty little shrew in serious need of some manners.

                _Who does he think he is mouthing off to me like that_? he thought self-importantly. _He ought to be begging me to claim him. No one else will want him when they learn he's already been mated._

                It was supposed to soothe Francis' injured pride, but the mental picture of anyone else touching his Omega, or even talking to his Omega; smiling, laughing, flirting; thinking they had any claim to him—! It fueled Francis with a possessive rage he hadn't ever felt before. It was very unlike him; he, who usually preferred fighting with words above fists. He disliked confrontation. But he couldn't help it. He glared at the surrounding Alphas, all so young and strong and eligible, suddenly seeing them all as rivals for Arthur's affection.

                _No_ , he decided, clenching his adolescent fists in determination. _I won't let anyone else claim him. He's mine. And I'll prove it_.

* * *

The next day, Arthur found himself the unwilling recipient of Francis' undivided attention. The Summer Games had begun, a whole day of sporting events designed to encourage friendly competition and forge inter-clan relations, but which also provided an excellent opportunity for Alphas to try to impress the Omega he was interested in. In Francis' case, that Omega was Arthur. After every event, Arthur was unfailingly presented with Francis' share of the winnings in an obvious attempt to garner the Omega's favour. It was a display of worth. And—Arthur was horrified to admit—it was working. Francis was an apt athlete and a superb hunter, who won more games than he lost. If he lost first-place, he took second or third. Not only was he naturally inclined, he was swift and elegant for his age, and he looked good while participating. Arthur tried his best to look bored, but his eyes kept straying inadvertently to Francis on the field, and the pile of trophies beside him kept growing.

                When Francis presented Arthur with a perfect red rose, Arthur took it unhappily, and muttered: " _Stop it_."

                Francis winked cheekily at his sullen intended and dashed off.

                "It looks like someone likes you," Liam teased. Initially he had whined and complained about not being able to participate in the pups' games because of his injury (he had dislocated his shoulder), but since Francis had started lavishing Arthur with gifts and attention—Liam reaping the benefits of anything edible—the Alpha-pup found it funny to sit and spectate. "Think you'll let him mate you?"

                "Sod-off." Arthur cuffed his younger brother over the head.

                Liam scowled, then grinned when he noticed: "You're blushing, Art."

                "No, I'm not. Shut up."

                "You are! You're beet-red! _Awe_ , do you love him?" Liam laughed. Playfully, he tried to steal the red rose from Arthur's hand, but the Omega growled and pulled back selfishly. Liam blinked in surprise. Then his freckled face split into a wide, impish grin, and peals of laughter escaped him.

                Arthur fumed in embarrassment, clutching the rose in accusation.

                Despite Liam's childish jokes, his observation was not untrue. To everyone spying on them, it really did look like Francis had chosen to claim Arthur, and by taking the gifts it looked like Arthur had accepted. _Oh_ , _bloody-hell_. But even if he stopped now, it wouldn't make much of a difference. Francis had made it clear by his actions and body-language that any competition for Arthur would be quickly and brutally defeated, promising much embarrassment for the challenger. The only physical contest he had yet lost was to Scott, which didn't exactly entice many other Alphas to bother trying for Arthur's favour. They still leered at him, of course, but none tried to talk to or get close to him. As far as the clans were concerned, Arthur was as good as mated.

                But Arthur didn't care (much). He was now thirty-six weeks pregnant. He had more important, more urgent, things to worry about than popularity, like how he was going to survive once his pup was born. The easy solution, now that he and Francis had been reunited, was to let the Alpha claim him and then deal with the consequences of telling him the truth. Francis would have no choice but to stay with Arthur once they were officially pair-bonded. Or rather, that _would_ have been the easy solution if Francis wasn't a lone exile with no family, no pack, and nowhere to belong. (Omegas were adopted by their Alpha's clan; it rarely went the other way.) But just for a moment, Arthur let himself forget the clans, the laws, and everything else, and simply watched Francis. He watched, beguiled, as the Alpha moved swiftly across the field, running and jumping and dodging attacks as he cornered his prey. He watched Francis' lithe muscles work smoothly beneath his golden skin, shiny blonde curls blowing in the breeze, and absently he smiled at the playful gleam in the Alpha's beautiful sapphire-blue eyes. Arthur rubbed his abdomen tenderly, sharing a private thought with his pup:

                _Your Papa is such a good hunter. And he's so bloody handsome. I really hope you look like him_ , _my darling. I hope you're strong and skilled and unafraid like him._

                Then the victorious Francis looked directly at Arthur—

                —and Arthur looked away.

* * *

_Am I still not good enough for you_? Francis thought as he was named the undisputed champion of his age-group. He had hoped that Arthur was watching his victory. He had made a show of it on purpose to try and impress the bored-looking Omega, but when he glanced over Arthur's eyes were downcast. Francis felt his confidence deflate; the bite of insecurity hurt his pride. _Just look at me_! he silently begged. _Just look at how hard I'm trying to win you. Look at the favour I've shown you_ , _you ungrateful little—_

                "—your clan?" said the Hunt's Leader.

                Francis blinked. "Pardon?"

                The burly, grey-eyed Alpha frowned. "Your clan, pup. You've won the hunt"—the most prestigious event—"so you get to choose which clan gets the reward." (The reward being the hunt's generous spoils.) "Which clan is yours?"

                "Uh..." Francis paused. He glanced to Arthur and back, and said: "Just give it to them." He pointed.

                "The Kirkland family? You want to give the _whole_ reward to one family?" The Hunt's Leader gaped in shock.

                Francis nodded. "Yes."

                The Hunt's Leader shook his head, impressed by Francis' brazenness. "Well if that doesn't get his attention, nothing will. Good luck, pup." He clapped Francis' shoulder in comradeship and then left to tell the Kirkland brothers the good news, that they would not be going hungry anytime soon.

                Francis didn't wait to see Arthur's reaction. He had exhausted himself trying to impress the stubborn Omega, and he didn't think he could stand it if Arthur refused to accept the reward, or, worse, if he glared coldly at Francis in reply. Instead, he headed back to his secret encampment, ready for a bath and a nap, but he had barely re-entered the forest when he suddenly heard his name.

                "Francis, wait!" Arthur called, jogging to catch up.

                He was flushed and winded when he reached Francis, who had stopped to wait for him. They were just inside the forest, out of sight of the field. Arthur gasped in exertion. _Not much of an athlete_ , _are you_ , _chéri_? Francis thought, feeling oddly tender. Arthur's hand was pressed to his chest. His clothes were in disarray and bunched at his stomach, which made him look much rounder than he was. Francis waited patiently for the Omega to regain his breath, making no move to touch him, even though he wanted to. Finally, Arthur said:

                "Why?"

                Francis stared. "Why what?"

                "Why did you favour my family with your whole reward?" The Omega's tone was a curious blend of suspicion and incredulity. "Do you even know what it's worth? It could feed you all summer. I know that you don't have a home, not anymore," he elaborated. A shred of sympathy leaked into his tone, but his words still stabbed painfully at the lost Alpha. Besides, his green eyes were still full of distrust. "Why did you just give your best chance at survival to me?"

                A dozen flirtatious remarks filtered through Francis' mind, but he ignored them and bravely chose the truth.

                "Because you're my mate and I want to take care of you," he said.

                Arthur paused, taken aback. His face even softened, making him look even lovelier. He still carried the red rose, Francis noticed. _My Island rose_. Then Arthur seemed to comprehend Francis' word-choice, and he said sternly:

                "We are _not_ mates. Just because we mat _ed_ last year does not mean either one of us chose the other to pair-bond with."

                "Well," said Francis, squaring his posture formally, "I'm choosing you now. Will you accept?"

                Arthur was silent for a long time. So long it made Francis nervous. The Omega looked torn, yet thoughtful. He was considering it. His lips were pursed and his eyes were hooded. Again, Francis fought the annoying urge to go to him. When Arthur finally did speak his voice revealed the emotion that his face did not. It was soft, but unyielding:

                "No, I refuse." His green eyes shone with unshed tears. "I can't be your mate, so please just leave me alone."

                Francis felt his stomach drop in disappointment; in disbelief. _Why_? _Why the fuck not_? He wanted to argue. He wanted to grab Arthur and shake him, and yell: _Look at us_ , _we're perfect together_! But he swallowed it, favouring his dignity. Francis Bonnefoi did not beg.

                "Fine," he said evenly, and turned away.

                "Take the reward," Arthur called, his voice choked. "It's yours, you earned it—"

                "No, just keep it," Francis growled. "I hate your food anyway."

                Then he was gone, stalking off through the dark, dense forest, back into exile.


	4. Renegades - Chapter Three

**JULY**

**ONE WEEK LATER**

Arthur awoke in a terrible, gut-wrenching pain. He bit his pillow to keep from crying-out. His hands instinctively went to his bulging abdomen, clawing at the womb. It felt different somehow, as if the pup inside was trying to physically communicate that it wanted to be born. Arthur wondered how long he had been in labour for before the pain of it had finally woke him. He hoped he hadn't cried-out in his sleep, but his brothers would have woken if he had. Careful not to disturb them, Arthur crawled out of the sleeping-roll, which was mercifully dry—his waters hadn't broken yet—and collected his satchel, which was packed with the apothecary box and some supplies. It was heavy. He had hidden tools inside, the tools he would need to bring his pup safely into the world. He had studied several texts on the subject, wanting to be prepared, but, as he left the comfort and safety of his family's campsite, he felt scared. More scared than he had ever been in his whole life. At the edge of the forest, he stopped and cast one last look behind him. He had been waiting for this day for nine months, but now that it had finally come, he didn't want to leave. He didn't feel ready. But he didn't have a choice.

                "Goodbye," he whispered to his family. Then he walked into the dark, dense forest alone.

                He didn't get far before he had to rest, collapsed against a tree as labour-pains wracked him. The weight of the satchel fell with an audible thump, nearly knocking him off-balance. Beads of cold sweat slicked his skin and he gasped, trying to breathe deeply. The contractions were excruciating. He recalled reading about them from an Alpha-written text, wherein the author had described labour as being a _mild discomfort_. Arthur grit his teeth in anger. _'Mild discomfort_ ' _my fucking arse_! _If I ever meet that Alpha_ , _I'll kill him_!

                When the pain subsided, he continued on. He had already scouted a place to give birth, close enough to hike to (though he hadn't considered having to walk while in labour), but far enough from the Standing Stones that no one would hear or smell him. That thought, though designed to comfort and protect his secret, proved the most terrifying yet. He was about to give birth, after all. What if something went wrong? What if Arthur wasn't strong enough to give birth, or what if his pup was too weak to survive? What if either of them needed help, but he was too far to call for aid?

                _Please be strong_ , _my darling_. Another contraction seized him and Arthur groaned. _And please don't kill me_!

                By the time Arthur reached his destination, he was already exhausted. The full moon was bright and high in the night's sky, which was a good omen. An Old Wives Tale said that pups born by the light of the full moon would be stronger than those who weren't. Arthur, who was hereditarily superstitious, took comfort in the ages-old legend as he shuffled into the dry cave. He had found it a week ago by accident and realized at once that it was perfect. It had been recently occupied and then abandoned. There was a fire-pit and a couple leftover articles of weathered clothing, which Arthur used to pad his bedding. He wasted no time in preparing a nest. He unpacked his satchel and then collapsed in a heap onto a blanket, leaning back against the cool rock. Sweat coated his skin, which was leeched of colour. His lips were dry; he was very thirsty. _I must look sick_. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on breathing calmly as the contractions started coming closer-and-closer together, becoming more unbearable. Every few minutes, he pictured himself fainting and his pup suffocating to death, only half-born, and it was that horrible fear that kept him going. He didn't have a choice, after all. There was only one way out of this and he was determined to survive it.

                _Alphas have their fights_ ; _this is mine_ , he thought courageously.

                Even so, a part of him wished that he wasn't alone. He wished that his brothers were there (even the twins), even though it was socially unacceptable for an Alpha to be present at a birth. He didn't have anyone else, after all. He didn't have an Omega in his life. _I want my mother_ , he thought suddenly, crying; grieving for the Omega-mother he had barely known. He had never called-out for her before, but just then he was scared. _I want Scott_. _I want Owen_. He thought of the older brothers who always protected him from everything that could—or couldn't—hurt him. He knew there was nothing they could do for him now, but he didn't think he would be so afraid if they were there; talking to him; holding his hand. _I don't want to do this alone_. _I want—Francis_. He hated how desperately he wanted the blue-eyed Alpha to be there with him, comforting him; standing guard. That's what an Alpha-mate was supposed to do for his family. He was supposed to guard them, protect them, while his Omega gave birth. Then, when it was over, he was supposed to be there to care for his newborn pup as his Omega recovered. A newborn needed an Alpha just as much as it needed an Omega. _But would he have stayed_? Arthur thought of Francis. _Would he have stayed with us if he had known the truth_? _Maybe he would have. Maybe_ , _but—_

                "I'm sorry," Arthur gasped, rubbing his abdomen. "I'm so sorry, my darling— _A-ah_!"

                Finally, after hours of sobbing and moaning himself hoarse, he felt his pup's body begin to stir. He reached down and gingerly felt that he was ready to deliver. He shifted his position and lifted himself higher, his legs splayed. It was an uncomfortable position, but it was the best that he could manage without assistance. He had laid down clean linens under him, and had a pile of soft furs to swaddle his pup in, as well as sterile instruments to sever their physical bond. He had a basin of boiled water to clean the pup once born, and a woven basket to lay it in as a makeshift cradle. And he had tinder and a hand-shovel to bury the mess—the evidence—when it was over. The last preparation he made was putting a wad of cloth in his mouth as a gag. Then he took a deep breath—

                And screamed.

                With his eyes squeezed shut, tears on his cheeks, Arthur screamed into the gag as he pushed his pup from his body into the world.

                When it slid into his waiting hands, Arthur's heart momentarily stopped. It was small—too small!—and very still. It felt like forever before it cried-out, loud and shrill and alive, and Arthur exhaled a sigh of relief. _At least you've got strong lungs_ , he thought as he preformed the post-birth tasks. It wasn't until he had gotten past the mechanics of cleaning and swaddling the pup—a small Omega-male—and was sitting back with the pup cradled in his arms that it finally struck him. He, Arthur Kirkland, had actually, successfully, given birth. He was alive. And he had a son.

                "You're mine," he said in awe. His voice was trembling with happy disbelief. More tears flooded his eyes; he couldn't seem to stop. "My pup. My precious little pup. Yes," he chuckled, smiling down at the tiny, squirming bundle. "I know you. I've known you for a long time, love. Do you know me?"

                As if in reply, the newborn opened his eyes and revealed striking sapphire-blue.

                But Arthur didn't have time to rejoice, because at that moment a sudden needle of pain pulsed through him. Panicked, he put the blue-eyed pup down into the basket beside him and reposition himself, bracing himself. He was expecting the mess of afterbirth, but that's not what he delivered. In fact, it felt like wicked déjà vu as he moaned and pushed and finally caught the second pup as it was born. Shocked and shaking violently, Arthur repeated the process of cleaning and swaddling his second Omega-male.

                "Twins," he whispered, admiring the pup's soft, pink face. He was quieter than his brother, and even smaller; he barely cried. "Well, it's no wonder I couldn't feel you, love. Not if you don't assert yourself," he chuckled, flustered. A teardrop fell onto the pup's cheek and his eyes fluttered open to greet the world. Arthur was expecting blue, or even green, but what he saw was beautiful violet. " _Oh_ , _wow_!" he exhaled, overwhelmed by emotion and sleep-deprivation.          "My pup. My beautiful, perfect pups," he cooed. He lifted the blue-eyed pup into his arms and held the twins together against his chest, rocking them gently. "My precious pups. I love you. I love you both so much." He kissed the brow of one, then the other. "I'm going to take care of you. I'm going to protect you. We'll be okay, I promise."

                Then he was crying for real, great, heaving sobs of desperation.

                _We're going to be okay. Somehow_ —he didn't know how— _I'm going to make everything okay. I have to._

"Alfred. Matthew," he named them. "I love you."

* * *

Francis tore through a thorny bramble patch, bloodying the leaves. A branch cut his cheek. He tumbled out, shook off, and broke into a sprint. He could hear his pursuers yelling and howling as they caught his scent. There were half-a-dozen of them and they were gaining on him. Francis panted hard as he dashed into the gully, kicking up water. It was icy cold, but he barely felt it. His heart was hammering as he ran, slipping on rocks and mud. When the stony riverbed opened into a fast-flowing river, he dove beneath the surface and continued to fight the current, swimming upstream as fast as he could.

                It had been an honest mistake. Francis had thought that they were clan-members, a rogue pack, perhaps, but Islanders nonetheless. But he had been wrong— _very_ wrong. They weren't Islanders; they were invaders. A scouting-party of Mainlanders who had crossed the narrow channel with the single-minded intention of plundering the Isles. Francis recognized their deep, growling voices; the language they spoke. _They're of the Northern clans_ , he groaned. _I hate Northerners_! They were big and strong and fast and brutal, and they had _not_ liked Francis trying to get friendly with them. He had been so grateful to spot their humble campsite initially, to smell the sweetness of roasting meat. Francis had been wandering alone for a week. He was starving and so tired that his body ached. All he wanted was a safe place to rest. He had approached the Northerners from downwind, making no attempt to hide himself. He hadn't wanted to surprise them or put them on-guard. Maybe, if he proved his worth to them, they would even let him stay. He had felt a fleeting shred of hope at the thought of belonging once more, but it evaporated when the six Northern Alphas turned on him. They looked dangerous, like warriors, each of them bigger and older than he. In that moment, all of Francis' arrogant self-confidence had fled and he suddenly felt like a helpless pup. He had ran and inadvertently provoked them to the chase.

                Francis gasped as he broke the water's surface. He swam to the shallow bank and pulled himself halfway out, then collapsed there. He didn't have the strength to rise. If the Northerners found him, they wouldn't encounter much of a fight. But it seemed like the water had worked; the other Alphas had lost his scent.

                Francis closed his eyes. His breathing had regulated, lulling him into sleep. He knew that he should crawl out of the water. Even in July he could catch the cold-death if he stayed there all night, but he didn't move.

                _Why bother_? he thought, depressed. _Where would I go_? _Who would care if I died_?

                Half-asleep, his mind wandered to Arthur. Again. Since leaving the Standing Stones behind, he had not been able to get the Omega out of his head, no matter how hard he tried. He couldn't forget about him; his looks; his voice; his un-Omega-like attitude, which was sexy and fierce. He couldn't forget the heartbreaking way Arthur had looked at him and said: "I can't be your mate." Francis had tried to ignore his aching heart and consider other Omegas to mate, but it had been a hollow attempt. It hadn't felt right, as if he was cheating on Arthur. After that, he had left the Stones.

                _Stupid_ , _selfish Omega_! he thought in grief. He clawed at the black mud, wanting to inflict some form of pain; it ground beneath his fingernails. _Why did you reject me_? _Why wasn't I good enough for you_? _Why_ —he fought back a surge of raw emotion— _can't I forget you_?

                _Have you forgotten me_?

* * *

**FIVE DAYS LATER**

Your Papa gave us this," said Arthur, repackaging the last oilskin-wrapped parcel of foodstuff he had taken. He hung it from the ceiling in a sack, licking salt residue off his fingers. There was a hook wedged there, driven into the rock by the cave's previous occupant. Arthur was eternally grateful to him, whomever he had been. Finding the cave already civilized had been a blessing that had made the transition from spoiled only-Omega into lone runaway much easier. Arthur didn't think he would have had the energy to do it himself, not so soon after giving birth. The food that Francis had gifted him helped, as well. He couldn't believe he had ever tried to refuse it, knowing that he had a pup(s) on the way. _Who am I kidding_? _Scott's right_ , _I can't hunt_! In retrospect, he only wished that he had taken more.

                "Your Papa wanted us to have this," he told his pups, who were following his movements with curious eyes. They were both observant little things, both bright-eyed in wonder; Matthew more than Alfred, who had been asleep for most of his life. Just then, however, they were both waiting to be fed. Carefully, Arthur crawled down off the rock-ledge, hissing as a needle of pain pinched him. It had only been five days since the twins' birth and Arthur's body was still healing. "Your Papa is a good hunter, the best of his age-group," he said, trying to distract himself. "He would've taken good care of us, I think. He _wanted_ to take care of us, but I said no."

                _And now—Do I regret it_?

                Arthur surveyed the small, fire-bright cave, which smelled of deep roots, dried foliage, wood-smoke, old furs, and sweet-milk; which looked like the campsite of a vagabond. Arthur had draped the sleeping-roll over the mystery-Alpha's discarded clothes to insulate the bottom of his bed, then covered it with an old brown fur. The basket sat atop it packed with soft rabbit pelts to keep his pups warm. Arthur had been proud of his home-making accomplishments before, but now, thinking of Francis, he felt inadequate. _I'm depriving my pups of something that they need_ , he knew, sitting down beside the basket.

                _We can't stay in this cave forever. They need an Alpha to protect and provide for them. And I need—_

                "Your Papa," he said, with a catch in his voice, "wanted to stay with us."

                _Would that really have been so bad_? _Worse than this_?

                Alfred yawned and stretched his pudgy arms, producing a soft sound that made Arthur smile. He tickled his rosy cheek, making the blue-eyed pup squirm and blow a spit-bubble.

                Matthew blinked his big violet eyes, which were wide and focused, observing—learning from—Arthur's every move. He reached upward, wanting the physical touch of his Omega-father.

                Arthur complied, wanting to hold his pup just as badly. "If your Papa was here," he said, rocking the violet-eyed pup gently, "it might be different for us. If he were here"—he swallowed—"I might not be so scared."

                It had been five days since he had given birth to the twins; five days since he had left his brothers, his whole clan; five days since he had slept. Since leaving, he hadn't felt safe. He was trying to be brave for his newborns, but his nerves were tense, always on-edge. The rustle of small-game or a whistle of wind set him on-guard. Sleep-deprivation was making him paranoid, but he couldn't sleep for fear that something would get in and hurt his pups. He had never lived alone before, and, as the days crept by, he found himself missing his brothers more and more.

                _Maybe I should go back and face the consequences. Even if I am exiled_ , _Scott would never abandon me—would he_? Arthur shook his head, ashamed of his own weakness. _No_ , _I can't. It's too great a risk for my pups_. He wouldn't risk his pups being rejected. He had only known them for a short time, but an Omega's bond with his pups was eternal. He would die of heartbreak if anything bad happened to them. _I can't go back there. I promised myself that I wouldn't. I have to do this on my own._

He grabbed Scott's tartan and wrapped Matthew in it, pacing back-and-forth in thought.

                _I have to find food. I have to find a better_ , _more permanent shelter. It has to be close to water_ , _but far away from any settlement_ , _neutral territory. I have to make proper clothes for Alfred and Matthew. I have to restock my herbs and medicine in case any of us get sick. I have to store enough firewood. I have to guard us against predators. I have to prepare for winter._

_Somehow_ , _I have to survive._

_And I have to do it alone._

* * *

Francis jolted awake, startled by—

                He glanced from left-to-right, his reflective blue eyes scanning the moonlit meadow for predators, but there was nothing. The forest was dark and quiet. The place he had collapsed protected him from spying eyes, which is why he had chosen it. It was the base of a hollow tree, which stretched upward from a dry gully. In the distance he heard the sound of running water and the chirp of a cricket's song, but otherwise silence enveloped him.

                _Why did I wake_? he wondered. He had been dead-asleep, so exhausted that his dreams had felt like reality. He had been dreaming of Arthur, of course, and of the night they had first met. But unlike his previous dreams (and daydreams), he had not been dreaming of mating the beautiful green-eyed Omega; rather, he had been dreaming of a pair-bonded life with him and their pups. In the dream, he and Arthur had beautiful pups, who slept soundly in their Omega-father's arms as he rocked them. Then, when the dream-Arthur noticed Francis watching him, he looked up at him and smiled. And Francis—the real Francis; not the dream-Francis—whined aloud in sorrow. It was unjust cruelty. Even the unconscious vision felt like a slap in the face, showing him something that he would never have.

                _Why—_? _Why do I want it so badly_? he thought.

                As an Alpha-pup growing-up on the Mainland, he had given little thought to his future, because it had been predetermined since his birth. He had flirted with dozens of Omegas, knowing that someday he would have his pick of the lot. The thought of being rejected had never— _never_ —even crossed his mind. Any Omega would have been a fool to refuse him back then. But now—? _Maybe it's not Arthur's fault. Maybe it's me_. It was a disconcerting admission, but Francis knew that he had nothing left. _Why would an Omega choose me to sire his pups_? _I have nothing to offer him. Why did I think he would choose me just because I'd won a few stupid games_? _So we could live in exile together_? He chuckled mirthlessly. Then, enraged by his bad-luck, he punched the ground. _Why did this have to happen to me_? He had never gone hungry before; he had never slept in discomfort; he had never been chased away. Not until the day he had been chased from the Mainland. _They would've killed me_ , he knew, his anger ebbing into despair. _If I had stayed_ , _they would've killed me. I made the right choice. I had to leave. I'm alive. I might not have a home or a mate_ , _but at least I'm alive. I might never have pups_ , _but—_

                _Fuck_.

                Francis leant back against the gnarled tree trunk and clutched his chest; his heart. He wanted pups. He had always loved pups and had always wanted his own. It depressed him, but he could—if he _really_ had to—accept the fact that he may never belong to a clan, or that he may never find an Omega-mate to pair-bond with. He could accept that he may have to live forever as an outcast, but when he thought of a life without pups it broke something inside of him. He had always just assumed that he would be an Alpha-father someday. It was the natural order of life, after all. He had never considered that he might have to live the rest of his life alone.

                _I don't want to be alone._

                Francis wiped his eyes, frustrated with himself. _Why am I thinking of this now_?

                Could it be that he was jealous of his dream-self, who had everything that Francis did not? _Pair-bonded with Arthur_ , _being the Alpha-father of his pups. Playing with them_ ; _providing for them_ ; _protecting them._ _Belonging with them._

Francis sighed in defeat and laid back down. He closed his eyes and tried not to picture Arthur in his mind. He tried not to imagine how wonderful an Omega-mate he would be, or how sweet and beautiful— _how completely perfect_!—their pups would be. He tried not to think about how much he wanted to be wanted, or how much he needed to be needed. He tried to pretend that he wasn't secretly terrified of losing Arthur. Of being alone.

                Eventually, he let himself fall back into a deep sleep full of peaceful dreams, knowing that it was the only way he could ever experience the life he wanted.

                " _Stupid_ , _selfish Omega..._ " he sleep-talked, seeing Arthur in his mind. And he smiled.

* * *

**THE NEXT DAY**

Arthur was scrubbing soiled linens at the stream when a loud, angry roar sent a chill down his spine.

                "ART!" Scott yelled.

                The Omega jolted in shock, feeling suddenly like cornered prey. He dropped the handful of linens and scrub-brush, letting the current take it all. Scott's advance was not happy. Arthur wanted to flee, but his body was frozen in fear. The Alpha's eyes burned like wicked green witch-light, his lips pulled back over his canines in an angry sneer. " _You are in so much fucking trouble_!" he snarled, increasing his pace as Arthur instinctively backed away. In a spurt of self-preservation, the Omega turned and ran, but the Alpha caught his forearm and whipped him back. "What the fuck, Art? Do you have any idea how fucking worried we've been? It's been six fucking days, you little bitch! You selfish fucking brat!"

                Arthur struggled in Scott's iron-like grasp, digging tracks in the soft mud. When that failed, he bit the Alpha.

                " _Ouch_! Oi—! Arthur!"

                Freed, Arthur dashed back to the cave. It was close; close enough to hear his pups if they cried. He had barely crossed the threshold, however, when Scott's big, broad shadow fell over him. In defense, Arthur grabbed a sharp rock and raised it in threat. "Stay back!" he yelled, standing protectively in front of the bedding.

                "Art," Scott growled, "give me one reason why I shouldn't skin your sorry arse right here—"

                Suddenly, he stopped. Rage abated into disbelief as his nostrils flared, breathing in the baby-sweet scent of milk. His gaze landed on the bed, then the basket. His nose smelled the blood of his kin. He took a step forward, but Arthur growled in warning. He hadn't growled at Scott since he was a pup, himself. It surprised the Alpha. Scott's eyes slid past Arthur's defensive stance and landed, again, on the basket where Alfred's soft voice whined hungrily, and he exhaled in bewilderment.

                " _Art_ —?"

                "Scott, please." Arthur's voice was small. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I lied. I'm sorry I left without telling you, but please don't hurt them. _Scott_!" he gasped as he was shoved aside. He lunged at Scott and tried to hit him with the rock, but the Alpha blocked the attack and held the weak, sleep-deprived Omega at arm's length as he looked down at the two dozing newborns. "It was an accident! I didn't mean to! Please don't hurt them!" Arthur begged.

                "Hurt them—?" Scott's tone was stony, but it was his eyes that reminded the Omega of his hierarchical place. Scott's gaze, when it pierced Arthur, was the embodiment of the Alpha's pride. It was the look of a leader who did not like to be given orders by someone of lesser status than himself. It was chastising. Arthur felt it and cowered in reply. His shoulders arched and his head bowed, waiting helplessly for his brother's verdict.

                _Please_ , he silently prayed. _Please accept my pups_!

                When he felt that Arthur had been satisfactorily subdued, Scott released him.

                "Is that how you see me, little brother? Am I really so cruel?" It was rhetorical; Arthur kept quiet. "Do you really think that I'd hurt two innocent pups? My own kin? If so, you're wrong."

                Ignoring the Omega's whine of protest, Scott knelt before the basket to meet his new nephews. Arthur didn't realize that he was holding his breath as the Alpha leant down and sniffed at the two tiny pups. He was studying them, memorizing their scents and gauging their individual worth. Alfred's pudgy fists waved back-and-forth, hitting his twin's face; Matthew yowled in response. Neither of them seemed frightened by the Alpha's presence, unlike most newborns. They were either very brave little things, or they recognized a blood-relative. Scott chuckled, momentarily enamoured. Then his eyebrows lowered in concern.

                "They're small," he observed. "You need to feed them more, Art. They're fragile, more delicate than the twins were," he said, implying Liam and Patrick. Then his lips curled into a proud grin. "Looks like our family has a genetic predisposition for twins, aye? They're pretty, Art. I'll give you that. There's no denying that these two are very pretty wee things."

                "Thank-you," Arthur said, because he didn't know what else to say. He stood stiffly watching Scott, ready to pounce if his brother's affection turned aggressive.

                Scott stood and faced him. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked in stern accusation.

                "I-I—" Arthur bowed his head. "I thought  you would be angry," he said honestly.

                "You're fucking right I'm angry. But not because of them," he nodded to the newborns, "and not because you spread your legs for an Alpha, either." Arthur flinched, but Scott pressed on. "I'm angry because you ran away. Or, tried to. I'm angry because you don't trust us."

                "I'm sorry."

                "Sorry, _pft_ ," Scott scoffed. He sighed, raking a hand absently through his vibrant locks. "Where is this Alpha of yours anyway?" he asked. His tone was casual, but his green eyes flashed dangerously. The cords of muscle in his arms and shoulders tensed.

                "He's gone," Arthur answered, grateful for the first time since he had left. Francis might have been a talented sixteen-year-old, but he wouldn't stand a chance against a big, fully-grown, infuriated Scott. "I sent him away."

                Scott's reaction was not expected. He balked in shock. "You _what_?"

                Arthur stepped back, putting himself between Scott and the newborns. "I, uh... sent him away," he repeated.

                Clearly, Scott thought that Arthur had eloped with the Alpha-father of his pups. He hadn't been expecting to find his Omega-brother living helplessly alone with two newborns and nobody to protect them. It seemed to infuriate him more than the Omega's illegitimate pregnancy or his wordless disappearance.

                "Fucking-hell, Art! Are you daft?" he snapped. Alfred whimpered and started to cry, but Scott ignored him. "Are you telling me that your wee pups don't have an Alpha? Who's going to protect them, Art? _You_ —?" He shook his head. _"_ Who's going to feed them, or provide for them? Who's going to care for them when you go into Heat? Don't you think they deserve more than—than _this_?" He gestured aimlessly at the barren cave. "Did you even think of your pups before you sent him away?"

                "Stop!" Arthur snapped. "You're scaring them!" Ignoring Scott's growl of disapproval, he lifted Alfred into his arms and bounced him, trying to soothe him. "I know I made a mistake, okay? But I don't know what else to do."

                "I'll tell you what to do." Deliberately, Scott stalked by Arthur and plucked Matthew from the basket. He held him with ease, and Arthur was suddenly reminded that Scott had already raised four younger brothers, two right from infancy. He was surprisingly apt at playing parent. "You're going to pack up and come back home," he ordered. "Owen and the twins have been worried sick, Art. Did you think we wouldn't notice you'd left? We've been looking for you for six fucking days. We didn't know what had happened to you. We thought someone had carried you off."

                "I'm sorry," Arthur repeated, cuddling Alfred in shame. He couldn't meet Scott's eyes. "But you know I can't go back. The clan-laws—"

                "Hang the fucking clan-laws!" Scott yelled, making Arthur flinch. Alfred wailed. "I'm the head of the family and I'm ordering you to come home _now_. Let me worry about the fucking clan-laws, you selfish little—"

                "I said I was sorry!" Arthur interrupted. He felt himself shaking; in fear, or rage—or something else, perhaps.

                Scott squared his shoulders, standing taller. He eyed his younger brother in threat. "Oh, you're going to be," he agreed. "You're going to get down on your hands-and-knees and fucking beg your brothers for forgiveness. You're going to apologize for all the fucking worry you've caused. Then we're going to pretend this"—he indicated the cave—"never happened. Is that crystal-fucking-clear?"

                Mutely, Arthur nodded.

                "Good." Scott's anger simmered. He adjusted Matthew, who, unbelievably, had fallen asleep in the Alpha's arms. "Then let's go."

* * *

What about the clan?" Arthur asked.

                He was sitting on a fallen log, nursing a cuppa tea, and watching as his brothers fawned over their nephews. Owen had Matthew swaddled in Scott's tartan and was pacing back-and-forth and rocking him gently, while Liam and Patrick sat beside Alfred's basket, making affectionate faces at him and tickling his rosy, apple-round cheeks. It was a relief that they, too, had accepted the newborns. Alphas didn't often accept the pups of outsiders—or worse, bastard-pups—into their family. More often than not, the pup(s) would be drowned or left for dead. It was considered a mercy, since they couldn't fend for themselves. Arthur had been terrified that Scott, who placed so much value in bloodlines, would reject Alfred and Matthew. But he hadn't. He had accepted them, and Arthur was eternally grateful. _Maybe it's because they're both Omegas_ , he considered. (Omega-pups posed less of a threat than Alpha-pups did.) Regardless, the other Kirkland Alphas hadn't been nearly as angry as Scott when Arthur had reappeared toting the two newborns. Owen had howled in relief and nearly bowled him over in an attempt to embrace Arthur. He stopped, of course, when he saw the basket with the pups, and settled for patting his Omega-brother's blonde head instead. As promised, Scott had taken the pups and made Arthur kneel on the grass to beg the forgiveness of his brothers (which the twins found hilarious). It was a humbling experience that Arthur resolved not to repeat in future. A long, frequently interrupted explanation followed as the Alphas asked questions and revealed shock at the Omega's confessions. Owen, especially, gaped at his younger brother, as if pieces of a complex puzzle finally fit into place.

                "I just can't believe that you did it all alone," he said in bafflement. The twins nodded in agreement. If Arthur squinted, he could see a shred of pride in his four Alpha-brothers' eyes.

                Scott had replied for him, saying simply: "He's a Kirkland," as if that explained it all.

                "Scott?" Arthur prompted now, glancing at the eldest for advice.

                "I told you not to worry about it. Just focus on being a father to those pups," he nodded to the two newborns, "and leave the clan-laws to me. Art," he added, noting Arthur's concern. In a friendly gesture, he punched the Omega's shoulder too hard; Arthur nearly lost his balance. Scott chuckled. "It's going to be okay, little brother. I won't let them take your wee pups. And I won't let them exile you, I promise. You might not have an Alpha-mate, but you've got me. You're my kin, Art, and so are Alfred and Matthew. I'll protect you."

                Arthur bowed his head, letting tangled wheat-blonde hair hide his face. He didn't want Scott to see the tears in his eyes.

* * *

**THE NEXT DAY**

Arthur hugged Alfred, trying to settle the unruly pup as he wriggled and fussed, drawing unwanted attention from the surrounding pack-members. The packs had discovered Arthur's infringement quickly once he agreed to go back to the Standing Stones. He had barely been reunited with his brothers before the pack's second-in-command was standing at their campsite, accusing him of breaking the clan-law:

                "It's illegal to mate without the pack-leader's consent," he growled authoritatively. He was a very self-entitled Alpha, who was a cousin of the Clan Leader. "It's illegal for pups to live within the pack without an Alpha. If the pack-leader refuses to accept responsibility for them"—which he would; pack-leaders adopted orphans, not bastards—"you will be exiled along with your pups, Arthur Kirkland. If the pack-leader consents to let you stay," he snorted, thinking it unlikely, "then your pups will immediately be put to death."

                Arthur didn't flinch. "If the pack-leader rejects my pups, I'll leave," he said bravely, glaring at the second-in-command. "You can exile me, but you will _not_ hurt my pups."

                "So be it," said the second-in-command. Then he left, and Arthur's bravery deflated into a panic-attack.

                It wasn't long before others started to spy on the Kirkland family, wondering what the commotion was about. As soon as the second-in-command left, neighbours flocked indiscreetly over to investigate. It wasn't a hard puzzle to solve, and word of Arthur's newborns travelled fast, especially when all of the Island clans were gathered together. By nightfall, there wasn't a single person who hadn't heard the gossip about the Kirkland Omega, and Arthur unwittingly found himself the talk-of-the-night. Of course, his clan was the only one who took the accusations seriously, because it involved one of their own. For everyone else, it was little more than a joke. Rival pack-members took bets on who the pups' Alpha-father could be, and many bet on Francis—much to Arthur's horror—though none of them knew him by name and simply called him _the Mainlander._

                "Stay here. I'll be back," Scott ordered. Then he had left, refusing to say where he was going. By sunset, even Owen was getting worried by Scott's lack of return, but return he did. He looked weary, but determined. "It's all been arranged," he said to Arthur, who merely blinked in misunderstanding. Scott said: "I've challenged the pack-leader. At dawn tomorrow I'll fight him. The Clan Leader will oversee it. If I win then I'll become the pack-leader and your fate, and the wee pups' fate, will be my decision. If I win you'll be safe, Art."

                " _When_ ," said Owen. His handsome face had lost its colour, betraying his fear, but he clapped Scott's shoulder in support. He exchanged a glance with the twins—all of them knew what losing implied—then cleared his throat and repeated confidently: " _When_ you win."

                Scott nodded.

                Arthur's heart pounded now as Scott entered the circle of eager spectators to meet the present pack-leader. The blinding light of dawn coloured the middle-aged Alpha in gold, making his profile look like a shadow against the rising sun. Just behind him stood the Clan Leader, who wore—what was believed to be—a direwolf's pelt as a sign of his position, as well as the Clan Leader's Omega-mate. Unabashed, she kissed the pack-leader's cheek for good-luck, which was a subtle symbol of support. _Fuck_ , Arthur thought, knowing how influential she was. In reply, the spectators howled in agreement, voicing support for the present pack-leader. "Fuck," Arthur cursed aloud, glancing at Owen. The twenty-year-old Alpha was tense. He cradled Matthew gently, but otherwise he looked ready to strike. _He's nervous_ , Arthur recognized. _He's just as nervous as I am._ When their green eyes met, Arthur saw his older brother's fear. Both of them knew that if Scott was defeated and killed, Owen would assume responsibility for the Kirkland family, and he would have a choice to make: to second Scott's challenge and fight the pack-leader, or to let Arthur and his newborns be exiled. It was a decision that he didn't want to have to make.

                As Scott stepped into position, Owen's lips began whispering a mantra of good-luck. Arthur stepped closer to him, lessening the gap between Owen, the pups, and himself. Liam and Patrick were pacing in an absent figure-eight around Arthur and Owen, growling to discourage unwanted attention, but they stopped when Scott entered the circle and moved to flank their older brothers. The foursome—and newborns—stood alone, except for a few pack-members who valued Scott as a friend and potential leader. Arthur was grateful to them and knew that they would be rewarded if Scott won.

                _When_ , _not if._ _When Scott wins_ , he corrected.

                The fight began without a signal. Scott struck first. He leapt at his opponent in a lightning-fast attack that the other Alpha couldn't dodge. The pack-leader was hit by Scott's full weight, but he deflected most of the damage. Scott regained his balance quickly and struck again, using his superior speed to his advantage. He was at least ten years the pack-leader's junior, and his body, though broad and heavy, moved like a whip. Arthur watched in amazement as his older brother maintained control of the fight. He was so impressed by Scott's skills, he nearly forgot to be terrified on his brother's behalf. Instead, he watched, awe-struck, as Scott fought a battle that didn't belong to him.

                "I didn't know he could move like that," Arthur said, impressed.

                "He's never had to before," Owen replied.

                The unspoken implication in Owen's tone was clear: _It's because of you_ , _Arthur. He's doing it to protect you._ It sent a shiver down Arthur's spine.

                As the fight raged, pack-members yelling and howling in excitement, Arthur realized that it was exactly what he had been trying to avoid by running away.

                _This is my fault_ , he thought. _Scott wouldn't have challenged the pack-leader if it wasn't for me. He wouldn't be fighting to protect me_ , _all of us_ , _from disgrace. He wouldn't be fighting for his life. If I had never met Francis_ , _if I hadn't gotten pregnant_ —

                He was feeling increasingly panicked when, suddenly, Alfred yowled in reply to the noises bombarding him and his little fist clutched Arthur's shirt in comfort. And in that moment Arthur's guilt evaporated. He looked down at tiny Alfred, then over at Matthew, who was staring wide-eyed in wonder as he watched the shapes and colours of the vicious fight, and all at once Arthur knew the truth in his heart:

                _I don't regret it. I don't regret any of it_ , _not letting Francis mate me and not getting pregnant_. _If I hadn't_ , _I wouldn't have Alfred and Matthew. I wouldn't have the pups whom I love now more than anything in the world. I'm sorry_ , _Scott_. _I'm so sorry that I've put you in this position_ —the pack-leader pounced and sunk his canines into Scott's shoulder; blood poured from the wound; Scott yelped loudly— _but I'm not sorry for what I've done. I'm not sorry for what I now have. Please_ , _forgive me_. _Please_ , _don't lose this fight. I need you. I need you to win_ , _brother. Not for me_ , _but for my pups. Please_ , _Scott_. _Please—_

                "Kick his fucking arse, Scott!" Arthur yelled at the top of his voice. It was spontaneous. He didn't realize that he had spoken—yelled—until Owen and the twins suddenly joined him. Together they ignored the insults and threats of the other pack-members and shouted at their older brother in vicious encouragement.

                Scott, who had started to struggle, cast a glance back at his brothers in surprise. As their voices reached him, yelling support, advice, and well-intended insults (from the twins), the Alpha's blood-freckled face split into a wicked grin and a spirited fire rekindled in his Lincoln-green eyes. When he caught Arthur's equally-green gaze, he nodded as if to say: _Don't worry_ , _Art_ , _I won't lose_. Suddenly, a great bark of laughter escaped him and he threw himself wildly at his opponent, determined to win at all costs.

                It ended quickly after that. The present—previous—pack-leader fell down dead on the grass, and Scott stood over his body, panting and injured in victory. The four Kirkland brothers rushed to Scott, but stopped when the Clan Leader stepped forward. Scott fell to his knees, his head bowed; in respect or because he was so badly injured, Arthur couldn't tell. The old Clan Leader studied him for the longest minute of Arthur's life, then placed a hand on Scott's red head. Arthur let out a sigh of relief. It was a symbol of acceptance, confirming that the challenge had been issued and fought fairly, and finally won with the Clan Leader's blessing. In a booming voice, he announced:

                "I have a new pack representative: Allistor Kirkland. Does anyone dispute my word?" No one moved, though Arthur saw the Clan Leader's Omega-mate narrow her eyes. "Well then," he continued bluntly, "what are you waiting for?" He gestured to the Alpha members of the pack that Scott had just inherited. "On your knees and swear loyalty to your new pack-leader."

                Owen offered Scott a hand, then stood beside him as each Alpha pack-member stepped forward and bowed his head in acknowledgement of Scott's authority. He leant heavily on Owen, Arthur noticed, but his face was a mask of self-satisfied victory. He looked strong. He looked like a leader. When the Clan Leader asked Scott if he would take responsibility for Arthur's pups and be their Alpha for as long as Arthur didn't have an Alpha-mate, he didn't hesitate. He accepted the responsibility and he did it _very_ publically, ensuring that every pack-member knew that Alfred and Matthew belonged to his family and were under his protection. Arthur's heart swelled at Scott's selfless declaration. It had been too long since he had felt truly safe, without hiding secrets. He wanted to tell Scott just how grateful he was, but he didn't know how. Scott wasn't someone who needed words of affirmation; none of the Kirkland brothers were. (Frankly, words made them all rather uncomfortable.) Instead, Arthur stood beside Scott as he accepted loyalty oaths from the Alphas, who each promised to accept Alfred and Matthew as Scott's heirs. As he watched, Arthur saw several unasked questions lurking behind each pack-member's eyes, wondering why such an eligible Alpha as Scott Kirkland would surrender his right to have an Omega-mate for the sake of his brother's illegitimate pups.

                (To avoid the problems associated with polygamy, an Alpha was only allowed to be responsible for one adult Omega at a time, whether or not they were mates. He could be responsible for as many pups as necessary.)

                The consequence of Scott's decision meant that, until Arthur had an Alpha-mate to replace Scott—which was unlikely now that the clans knew he had already been mated—he and his two pups would stay under Scott's protection because it was illegal for them to live in the pack without an Alpha. And on Scott's part, he wouldn't be able to take an Omega-mate for himself until another Alpha agreed to take Arthur. The clan-laws were in place to ensure that nobody was neglected and left un-provided for, but the reality of it meant that Scott was unlikely to ever have an Omega-mate because he was now shackled to undesirable Arthur. It was a heavy sacrifice, especially for a pack-leader.

                Arthur wished that he knew what to say to his brother in thanks, but whenever he got the chance to speak to Scott alone, words failed him. The best he could do was stay faithfully by Scott's side, as Scott had always stood by his.

                Finally, the Clan Leader clasped Scott's hand and showed he and his four brothers a discrete half-smile. The Clan Leader had always liked Scott, and, though he was supposed to be impartial to the minor changes in leadership, Arthur could see that he was glad of the change. Scott accepted the Clan Leader's subtle congratulations in a dignified manner, looking proud but not arrogant. Looking strong, like the leader he had become.

                It wasn't until the five Kirkland brothers had safely returned to their campsite, hidden from spies, that Scott finally unclenched his teeth and growled in pain:

                " _Son-of-a-fucking-bitch_!"

                He whined and moaned like a pup as Arthur cleaned and bandaged his many wounds, several of which were disconcertingly deep. The previous pack-leader had not been a weakling and had fought hard to the bitter end. (Scott said that he wouldn't have wanted it any other way. He had respected the previous pack-leader, and out of respect as much as necessity was determined to be a good successor.) "Here," Arthur said, handing his older brother a flask full of scotch. Scott grabbed it and gulped down the contents greedily, letting the alcohol numb the pain. Then he belched loudly and licked his lips. Arthur rolled his eyes.

                "So," Scott settled back on his sleeping-roll, feigning nonchalance, "I don't recall any of you swearing loyalty to the new pack-leader," he teased.

                Owen, Liam, and Patrick exchanged an ironic glance. On behalf of the trio, Liam said: "Fuck you."

                Scott barked in laughter, but he stopped immediately when Arthur knelt beside him. The others quieted, too, watching as their only Omega-brother took Scott's bandaged hand and bowed his head in gratitude.

                "Thank-you," he said softly.

                In reply, he felt Scott's free hand rest gently on his wheat-blonde head. He said: "You're welcome."


	5. Renegades - Chapter Four

**AUGUST**

Most of the clans had departed by mid-July, journeying back to their home territories to begin preparations for the winter. Fields needed to be tended and crops sowed; game needed to be hunted, skinned, and preserved; shelters and storehouses needed to be repaired and insulated; tools and weapons needed to be crafted; and—most importantly—territory needed to be defended. Every day, more packs left the sacred Standing Stones until it was as empty a field as before the summer festival. By August, Arthur's family was one of the only ones left. He had begged his four brothers to stay until his pups were stronger and had encountered little resistance. Scott had declared—while nosing Alfred's apple-round cheek affectionately—that they would stay put as long as necessary. (The newborns were already being spoiled by their proud and overindulgent uncles.) The food that Francis had left turned out to be a god-send, since hunting was forbidden in the forest. It fed the family for a month before they started rationing their supply for the journey north. Finally, on the first of August, the remaining few families packed up their campsites and started for home.

                The pace Scott set was slow, but by nightfall Arthur was exhausted nonetheless. He felt sluggish and hungry, his body still tender as it healed. He sat at the fireside feeding Alfred and Matthew, and this time nobody complained or cracked cruel jokes at his expense. This time, they let him rest. Owen cooked, which was— _okay_. Arthur devoured a bowl of lamb stew and immediately asked for seconds, while Scott rocked the two pups to sleep. They looked small in his big arms. By sunset, the Omega's eyelids were drooping and his head bobbed tiredly. "Art," Scott said, pushing the sleeping pups into his arms, "go to sleep." It was an order, but Arthur was only too happy to comply. Mechanically, he crawled into his sleeping-roll, holding the pups close to his warm body, and was asleep before his head hit the pillow. He only awoke twice: once by Alfred, who was hungry; and once by Alfred, because Matthew was hungry. _If Alfred wasn't so vocal_ , _Matthew wouldn't ever eat_ , he thought, feeling guilty about his quieter pup. Arthur nearly fell asleep sitting up as Matthew fed. The Alphas surrounded them, sprawled on their backs and bellies, soundly asleep. _It'll be a while before I get to sleep through the night_ , Arthur predicted, eyeing his brothers enviously. Yet, he was grateful. _If I was still all alone in that cave_ , _I'd be—Actually_ , he considered his former paranoid state, _I'd probably be dead._ As he wiped Matthew's soft face and settled back down, he absently shifted closer to Scott's body. It made him feel safe and comfortable—that is, until Scott roused him at sunrise. (Then he went back to hating Scott just a little.)

                On the third day, Patrick sprinted back to their temporary campsite in excitement. Bored, Scott had sent him to scout the road ahead. His young face was bright-eyed and flushed when he gasped: "Raiders!" He pointed eastward. "Not a mile away! They've got a family cornered in a ravine, an Alpha with an Omega and two pups!"

                Scott and Owen leapt to their feet. Scott grabbed a knife; Owen, a bow. "Stay with them," Scott ordered Liam and Patrick, waving back at Arthur. The twins scowled. "I said _stay_!" Scott growled, snapping his teeth at them when they followed. They weren't big, but they were brave for ten-year-olds, and rather capable. They had been taught well. Both grabbed eagerly at fishing-spears, ready for their first real battle.

                "There's five of them and they're big," Patrick reported. "You need us."

                "I need you to stay with Art!"

                "Go ahead," Arthur interrupted. He had already bundled his pups into the basket, covering them with the old tartan. "I'll be fine. I'll hide."

                Scott started to protest, but just then a pup's high-pitched shriek echoed across the foggy moors, followed by the howls and mean-sounding growls of a fight. It urged the party of Alphas into fast action. "Stay out of sight!" Scott snapped as he departed, leading the others eastward toward the cries of distress.

                Arthur needed no instruction. Leaving everything else behind, he took the basket and jogged into the forest. It was a deciduous forest, offering less cover than the evergreens did, but Arthur found a canopied copse of trees, one of which was hollow. It stood at the base of a dry gully, dipping below the higher banks. He climbed down cautiously, sniffing for rodents and other animals that could hurt his pups. He caught a vague Alpha-like scent that seemed kind of familiar, but it was very faint and the Omega's nose was not sensitive enough to discern it, so he disregarded it. The base of the tree showed signs of digging, but otherwise it was deserted. Arthur was half-conscious of the fact that he was cornering himself if he was found, but he knew he couldn't run. Instead, he shoved the pups' basket half into the hollow tree; the roots prevented him from hiding it completely. Then he searched for a sizable branch he could use as a club if needed.

                _Please don't be needed_ , he prayed.

                Arthur crouched beside his pups, one hand petting their heads, the other clutching the club tightly. "Don't be scared, my darlings. It's okay," he cooed softly. "I'm here."

                In the distance, he could hear the terrified cries of someone else's pups. And he shivered.

* * *

Francis stood barefoot in a cold stream, his trouser-legs rolled up to his knees as he scanned the clear surface for the shadow of fish. His hands hovered inches above the rippling water, curled into claws, ready to strike as soon as he saw movement. He was starving. His stomach growled loudly in encouragement and absently he licked his lips. He struck quickly, squeezing the life from his unsuspecting prey. The fish wriggled as he pulled it out of the water, but he held it tight. He had to stop himself from sinking his teeth into its scaly body, wanting to taste its blood, its flesh. _I'm turning into a barbarian_ , he thought in disgust. He had prepared a small fire to roast the fish before consumption, which was on the bank close by. But just as he was wading to shore, a terribly _familiar_ voice erupted from the forest.

                Francis dropped the fish in shock. That terrified voice sent a chill down his spine. It growled; then yelped. He didn't even realize that he was running, barefoot with his trousers rolled up, until he was crashing through the thorny underbrush. The breeze whipped his face, his blue ribbon sailing behind him like a flag. He raced toward the sound of the confrontation, his heart pounding in fear. The closer he got, the more definable the Alpha's scent was. He was one of the Northerner's pack who had chased Francis off a few weeks ago. Francis spotted him as the trees parted. He was a pale-haired brute who easily outweighed Francis—or Arthur, whom he had cornered.

                The Omega brandished a large branch clumsily in defence. The size of the club made him look pitifully small.

                Francis couldn't see Arthur's face—his back was to Francis—but his voice was a fearful growl.

                "Get away!" he snapped at the Alpha, who stepped closer.

                Francis _could_ see the Alpha's weathered face, and it infuriated him. The Northerner grinned fiercely, scaring the Omega by showing his canines. Instinctively, Arthur stepped back. The Alpha said: "My pack is short on Omegas." (Settlers always were.) "And here I find you hording two. It's just my luck. I'll take them back with me. You too, green-eyes. You're not completely spent; you've got lots of pup-bearing years left. Come here." It was an order, not a request. The Northerner extended his hand. When Arthur tried to attack, the Alpha grabbed the club and flung it aside. It hit a tree and broke into thick splinters. "I said," he repeated, stalking closer and raising his fist, " _come here_!"

                As the Northerner struck, Francis leapt in front of Arthur and blocked it. He snarled, fear becoming fury as he shoved the attacker back, off-balance. His lips pulled back, revealing his teeth in anger. He drew himself to his full height in an attempt to intimidate (or at least look evenly matched), but his appearance did not stall the Northerner for long. He retaliated full-force, angry that his abduction had been interrupted. His fists pounded at Francis, serving powerful blows that knocked the younger, slighter Alpha back. Francis kept his footing, but just. He was weakened by hunger and sleep-deprivation. He dodged more attacks than he served, using his superior speed to his advantage. He tried to draw the Northerner's attention away from Arthur, but every time he got too far away, the Northerner started  toward the Omega, who refused to move. _Why don't you run_? Francis wondered in frustration. _Can't you see that it's your only option_? _I'm giving you the chance to run_! He wished that Arthur would run. He didn't think he could hold the older Alpha at bay for much longer. But Arthur stood rooted to the spot in front of a very familiar hollow tree; the tree he, himself, had taken refuge by more than once. It was a place for hiding, not attacking. _You fool_! Francis cursed. Too slow, he took a sudden blow to the head that sent him sprawling to the ground. He blinked, momentarily dazed. The angry Northerner advanced on him, intending to kill. Francis tried to rise, but his limbs trembled and he slipped. The other Alpha spat something in a foreign tongue that sounded like a threat, or a farewell.

                Then the Omega jumped on his back.

                Francis stared in bewilderment. Then he yelled: "Arthur— _run_!"

                Arthur, of course, refused to obey.

                _Stubborn_ , _reckless Omega_!

                Arthur snaked his arms around the Northerner's neck and was trying to choke him. The Alpha gasped as he whipped his body back-and-forth, trying to pry the green-eyed Omega off himself. Unfortunately, it wasn't long before he succeeded. He pulled Arthur overhead and threw him hard against a nearby tree. Arthur emitted a painful yelp and then lay unmoving.

                " _You little bitch_!" the Northerner snarled. Marching forward, he reached for the still Omega. "You're going to be sorry you did that! I'm going to—"

                "Die," said Francis, stabbing a splinter into the Northerner's jugular. "You're going to die."

                Hot blood spurted from the lethal wound, splattering Francis, and the Northerner's body fell with a gurgling growl. It jerked, then his eyes rolled back in his head and he died.

                Francis didn't wait for confirmation. He ran to Arthur's side and fell onto his knees, half-cradling the injured Omega as he tapped his cheek. "Please, wake up. Are you okay? Arthur—?"

                Arthur groaned as he came slowly back to consciousness. His blonde eyelashes quivered. His eyes squeezed shut, and then opened slowly. It was a minute before he recognized Francis, but before he did he tentatively cupped the Alpha's stubbled cheek and his lips curled into an absent smile. His body relaxed, feeling safe. Then he spotted the Northerner's corpse and he emitted a sharp gasp as reality hit. He shoved Francis and scrambled eagerly to his feet. It looked like he intended to run, so, fearing losing him, Francis grabbed him. He held the Omega's forearm as he pulled and struggled, trying to escape.

                Arthur was speaking too fast: "Let go! Please, _let me go_!" he begged.

                Francis thought that the attack had scared him. His face softened (though his grip did not). He wanted to tell Arthur that he was safe. That he, Francis, would protect him. That he, Francis, would not lose him again. But he never got the chance. Before he could utter a single syllable, a pup's cry erupted.

                Francis hadn't noticed before, too focused on rescuing Arthur, but as he inhaled deeply, sifting past the other scents—the wet forest; small-game; the dead Alpha—he suddenly couldn't not smell the mild, baby-sweet scent of two pups. Two _very_ young pups: newborns. On the surface, Francis could smell Arthur's Alpha-brothers, but it came from the fibre of an old article of clothing. That, mixed with the dry hemp-scent of a basket weave surrounded the pups, but it didn't penetrate their skin. He recognized Arthur's scent instantly, a discernible skin-to-skin touch, and the residue of the Omega's milk; he could smell Arthur's genes in the pups' blood. But it wasn't Arthur's alone. Aside from lacking any distinct qualities, or perhaps because of it, the pups smelled exactly like—

                Francis' blue eyes widened in disbelief.

_Me_. _They smell like me._

                In shock, he released Arthur, who ran to the hollow tree to quiet the crying pups. (One cried loudly; the other whimpered in threat.) Francis stood stalk-still, paralyzed. He couldn't move, or speak; his mouth felt dry. He stared in bewilderment as Arthur produced a basket from inside the tree and reached into it, cooing gently, trying to soothe two frightened newborns who did not want to be soothed. One of them wailed louder, encouraging the other. A powerful urge seized Francis then, which felt just as strong and natural as racing to Arthur's aid. Without conscious volition, he took a step closer. He wanted to see the pups. He wanted desperately to touch them, to hold them. He wanted them to know that he, Francis Bonnefoi, was their Alpha-father and that he would protect them. Like a sleepwalker he stepped forward, pulled by a primordial instinct that couldn't be explained.

                _Mine. My pups_ , he thought, feeling overwhelmed. _I have pups. I have two pups. I—_

                "Stay back!" Arthur snarled.

                The Omega stood in front of the basket with his arms spread to hide the pups from view. His body-language was reflexive more so than defensive, but Francis stopped as bidden. Arthur seemed to exhale in relief, but remained tense. He looked like he wanted to run, but his Lincoln-green eyes told a different story. He was small and weak, but if there was a more determined Omega in the world, Francis had yet to meet him. _He would stay to face Armageddon if it meant protecting those pups_ , Francis thought. He felt a surge of pride knowing that his pups— _their_ pups—had such a dedicated and brave Omega-father.

                "Arthur," he said gently. The Omega tensed, watching Francis' every move. In peace, Francis surrendered his hands. "I just want to know"—he knew; he already knew. It was impossible not to know, but he had to hear the Omega say it—"are they mine?"

                "Yes."

                Francis felt his knees go weak, but he stayed upright (without leaping in joy). His face was not so disciplined, however. His lips widened into a shaky smile and tears of disbelief unwittingly filled his eyes. He swallowed. "Can I—see them?"

                "No."

                It took Francis a moment to register Arthur's refusal. He panicked. "Why not?" He tried to keep the fear and anger from his voice, but when Arthur didn't reply, he repeated: " _Why not_?"

                The louder pup shrieked.

                Immediately, Francis felt guilty. _Oh_ , _no_! _No_ , _chéri_ , _don't be frightened_! In a softer voice, he said: "Arthur, _s'il vous plaît_ —?" and took a cautious step forward.

                "NO." Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and bowed his head. His body trembled; but from fear, grief, or anger, Francis didn't know. One thing was certain, though. Arthur couldn't fight Francis and both of them knew it. And that, he realized, is what frightened the Omega. If Francis decided that he wanted the two pups; if he decided to take them, or hurt them, he could, and there was nothing Arthur could do about it.

                Francis had heard several horrible stories about Alphas who refused to acknowledge their pups, because they rejected the Omega-parent, or because they didn't believe that the pup was truly theirs, or because they simply didn't want offspring. Regardless, it was shameful and socially unacceptable, but not unheard of for an Alpha to abandon his family. And, worse, it wasn't uncommon for the pack-leader, in that case, to order the rejected pup be killed (provided it was less than a year old). Francis had even heard the odd nightmarish tale of an Omega who murdered his own pup to satisfy an Alpha, or of others who did it to hide the evidence of an affair. In the past year, Francis had heard of what the Islanders called _the Hunts_ , where clan-members had hunted and murdered the pups of their rivals. The horrors of it filled Francis with pure rage, closely accompanied by debilitating fear since he knew he had pups of his own. Lastly, he thought of the Northern Alpha whose corpse lay bleeding on the ground a few feet away, and how he had intended to abduct Arthur and the two Omega-pups to be used as breeding-stock for his pack. Considering all of that, there was no question as to why Arthur was nervous, perhaps rightfully so, but—

                _I would never_ , Francis thought in devastation. _I would never take a pup from his Omega-parent_ , _especially not my own_ — _not Arthur's._ _I would_ never _hurt a pup. I swear it. I just want to see them_ , _please_ , _Arthur. I don't want to hurt them_ , _or reject them. I want to protect them. I want to love them. Please_ , _I just want to see my pups._

"Please..." he whispered helplessly.

                If Arthur refused, Francis knew that he wouldn't fight. He knew that he would leave without protest if that's really what the Omega wanted. And he knew, without a doubt, that it would break his heart.

                But Arthur didn't refuse. This time, he said: "Fine."

* * *

Francis approached slowly, but it wasn't caution. It was nerves. He was eager, yet afraid to meet his pups for the first time; afraid, perhaps, that they wouldn't recognize him. Arthur's heart beat fast, fighting the urge to change his mind and yank Francis back. The Alpha passed within an inch of the Omega, but he barely seemed to notice. His gaze was focused on the woven basket that cradled the crying pups. He had eyes only for them. As he crouched, Arthur heard him inhale in awe, then exhale a breath of happy disbelief.

                " _Hello_ , _my darlings_ ," he said softly in French. " _I'm so happy to meet you_ , _my sweet pups._ _I'm your Papa._ "

                Francis' words touched Arthur's heart, destroying his defenses all at once. He didn't understand the foreign language, but the implication in the Alpha's voice was unmistakable; the emotion was raw. Francis sounded so happy, which unintentionally made Arthur happy. He relaxed as he watched the Alpha greet his newborns, abandoning any fear he had harboured of Francis hurting or rejecting them. He didn't even flinch when Francis reached down into the basket to cup each pup's soft, round cheek. It seemed natural. It seemed _right._

                _He's their Papa_ , Arthur thought, feeling suddenly guilty that he had denied his pups for so long. _My pups—_ our _pups—need him._

                As Francis' soft, indulgent voice and his gentle touch registered, the pups quieted. Matthew stopped whining almost immediately; Alfred stopped a moment later. It might have been their curiosity, or them recognizing a blood-relative—No, not just a blood-relative: their Alpha-father. Regardless, Francis' mere presence managed to achieve in a single gesture what it sometimes took Arthur hours to do. Both of the pups quieted. They trusted their Alpha-father. Instinctively, they knew him.

                "What did you call them?" Francis asked without looking away.

                Arthur swallowed; his voice felt weak. He knelt beside Francis and patted each pup's soft, blonde head as he spoke their names:

                "Alfred and Matthew."

                Francis tested the names: "Alfred and Mathieu. Yes, that's right. That's exactly who you are, _mes chéris_."

                Then, deliberately, he looked at Arthur and the Omega suddenly felt the full weight of the Alpha's heartache. He said: "Please let me stay." A tear fell unabashedly from his eye, landing on Alfred's pudgy little fist. "Please don't leave me again. Not now. I'll be whatever you need me to be, whatever you want me to be," he promised desperately. "But don't run, Arthur. Please, _please_ don't take my pups from me. Please let me stay with them. Let me stay," he took Arthur's hand and squeezed it tenderly, "with you."

                Arthur tried to fight the feelings that suddenly flooded him, but it was useless. He had been trying to run and hide for almost a year, but he had always failed, and now, staring into Francis' fathomless blue eyes, he knew why. He only had to admit it: He didn't want to. He had been running from something that he wanted; something that he—and his pups—needed. He could tell himself that accepting Francis had only been the decision of a desperate, Heat-crazed Omega, and back then he might have been right. But choosing to accept Francis now as a true pair-bonded mate made him feel just as desperate. He could tell himself that he was only accepting the Alpha because he had pups to support, but that would have been a lie. He was doing it now because he wanted to; because he had always wanted to; because he hadn't ever wanted anyone else. Francis, it had always been Francis. Arthur finally realized (privately, at least) that a part of him was undeniably, accidentally, falling in love with Francis. And despite the odds, instead of it fading with time, that love was only growing stronger. Francis was no longer a memory that Arthur was afraid to remember. He was there: tall and strong and handsome, and begging the lonely Omega to let him stay.

                Wordlessly, Arthur nodded and let Francis pull him into an embrace. He felt the Alpha's overwhelming relief and, before he knew it, he was crying and clutching at Francis' shirt. In reply, Francis held him tight. It felt better than what Arthur could have imagined. He didn't want to let go, and he didn't—not for a long time.

                Eventually, Francis pulled back. "Thank-you," he whispered. Spontaneously, he pulled the blue ribbon from his messy curls and tied it around the Omega's wrist.

                It was a small gift, but it carried huge weight. In acceptance, Arthur said: "Don't make me regret this." It was a half-hearted joke, but the words rang true.

                _I'm trusting you_ , _Francis_ , _so please don't hurt us._

Francis seemed to sense the deep, innate fear in Arthur, a fear that would take time to heal, because at that moment he lifted the Omega's chin, and said very seriously:

                "I promise."

                Then Francis was kissing Arthur, and Arthur was kissing him back, and their two newborn pups were quiet between them. And nothing else—not the past, present, or uncertain future—mattered. It was just them. And, finally, it was _just right_.

* * *

I can't believe I didn't realize," Francis said, shaking his head. He was pacing back-and-forth, gently rocking Matthew, who was asleep. "I should have smelled it. How did you keep it a secret for so long, from me, from everyone?"

                Arthur glanced at the befuddled Alpha. "I took precautions." He shrugged as he re-dressed Alfred, who was wiggling like a beached fish. "I'm not stupid, you know."

                Francis lifted an eyebrow, then conceded. "No," he smiled. "You are many things, _chéri_ , but stupid is not one of them."

                Arthur rolled his eyes. He tickled Alfred's belly, but the pup only yawned sleepily. His tiny pink tongue poked out and he produced a high-pitched mewling sound, which made Francis gush fondly. As the Alpha rambled on about how adorable his sweet, perfect pups were, Arthur resisted the urge to laugh. It was like Francis was trying to make up for lost time by cuddling his pups as much as possible. Since returning to the Kirkland's temporary campsite, Francis had been switching between Alfred and Matthew, wanting to hold one of them at all times.

                "I want them to know who I am," he had said. "I want them to know my scent, my face, my voice."

                It was unnecessary, Arthur thought. Both of the pups were perceptive; they knew their own family members. "They're not actually that brave," Arthur explained. The pups were relaxed in the presence of their blood-relatives, but they shrieked bloody-murder if a strange Alpha got close. _You have nothing to fear_ , _Francis. They already love you_.

                Just then, a loud howl echoed in the distance.

                Francis flinched. " _What was that_?"

                Arthur noted the way he clutched Matthew protectively. It made him happy. As he watched Francis move to stand defensively in front of he and Alfred, the Omega felt a wave of affection for him.

                " _That_ ," he said, laughing as he lifted the blue-eyed pup, "was my brother. I guess they won the fight."

                Francis paled. "Your, uh... brother?"

                Arthur grinned wickedly. He leant up and pecked Francis' stubbled cheek. "Now I get to see how brave you really are, Alpha."

                The redheaded twins appeared first, racing each other over the rocky, undulating terrain; the next was Owen, who reached overhead, stretching and flexing his taut muscles; and then Scott, who stalked toward the campsite like a wolf on the prowl. In preparation, Francis passed Matthew to Arthur, who balanced both small pups against his chest. They were lightweight and fit comfortably; Arthur, too, loved holding them. He took a step back and watched his four brothers' steady advance. Even from a distance, the Kirkland Alphas visibly tensed when they caught Francis' scent on the wind. They recognized his scent from the Standing Stones, of course, but even more they recognized his blood, his genes, in their nephews. The revelation was clear on Scott's face as he neared, his pace increasing. When he was close enough, he growled a low warning. Arthur heard it; so did Francis, but the blue-eyed Alpha didn't retreat. Instead, he stayed rooted to the spot and waited for the head of the Kirkland family to reach him.

                Scott stopped directly in front of Francis, just within striking distance. They made eye-contact for a minute, sapphire-blue eyes staring intently into fierce Lincoln-green, and then Francis bowed his head, showing respect and submission to Scott's higher position. Owen, Liam and Patrick stood close, waiting for Scott's verdict. They waited for a long time. Arthur started to feel nervous; Francis must have been terrified. Scott's face was unreadable, but nothing about his posture was friendly. His gaze slid from Francis to Arthur and finally landed on the ribbon tied around the Omega's skinny wrist. He exhaled and said:

                "Ah, fuck."

                He placed his hand on Francis' blonde head. "Welcome to the family, Mainlander."

* * *

That night, Francis watched over his sleeping Omega-mate and pups. It wasn't necessary. Arthur's four brothers were all there to guard them as well, and, precious as they might be, three Omegas did not need five Alphas to guard them. But even if Francis hadn't felt duty-bound to his new post as his family's protector, he couldn't have slept. He was too wired ( _elated_ was a better word). After a long year of wandering aimlessly in search of a place to belong, he had finally been accepted—not just into a clan, but into a family. _They're so beautiful_ , he thought, staring down at Arthur, Alfred, and Matthew. The Omega was lying on his side, legs curled up and arms outstretched, cradling both pups. A big tartan blanket covered them like a cocoon. Francis sat beside them, feeling peaceful. When Matthew sighed in his sleep, his Alpha-father raised a hand to pet the pup's kitten-soft curls. The Kirklands had fed Francis, and Owen had even gifted him with one of his old shirts to replace the threadbare one he had been wearing for weeks. With a full stomach and a safe place to rest, all Francis wanted to do was lie down with Arthur and hold his family in his arms. He wanted to feel the Omega's body against his, soft and slight and warm. He wanted to bury his face in the scent of the Omega's wheat-blonde hair. He wanted to kiss the Omega's freckled skin.

                For a year, Francis had felt like an addict desperate for relapse; desperate for Arthur's touch. He had dreamt of kissing him (and, uh, of doing other things...), and when it had finally happened again, when they had finally been reunited, Francis had taken full advantage. He had tried to communicate just how happy he was in that kiss, and now he was afraid that his vigour had scared the emotionally-distant Omega. Since then, Arthur had kept physical-contact to a minimum, though that could have something to do with his brothers' constant presence. (Despite his attitude, the Omega was adorably shy.) Francis could have ordered his Omega, but respectfully he refrained. He had promised long ago that he would not be a demanding, overbearing Alpha-mate. He would never force intimacy. It meant waiting out Arthur's unease, but he hoped it would be worth it (while, at the same time, promising himself to show his pups extra affection to ensure they grew-up to be more emotionally-available than their stone-hearted Omega-father and uncles).

                " _Je t'aime_ , _mes chéris_ ," he whispered to the pups.

                Maybe it was a subconscious desire provoked by Francis' voice, but Arthur's lips parted and he sleep-talked in reply. Softly, he said: " _Francis_..."

                "Yes, Arthur." He placed a hand on the Omega's blanketed shoulder. "I'm here."

                Arthur's eyelids fluttered; half-asleep, half-awake. He said: "Come closer."

                "An Omega shouldn't give his Alpha orders," Francis teased, while moving immediately to comply. Pleased, he laid down behind Arthur and, wrapping he and the pups in a hug, pulled the skinny Omega snug against his chest. Arthur arched his shoulders, then visibly relaxed. He sighed in contentment, not unlike his violet-eyed pup. Matthew instinctively turned his head, nosing Francis' skin; Alfred pressed his cheek to Francis' forearm, making Francis smile. The Alpha bowed his head and touched that smile tenderly to the back of Arthur's exposed neck. The Omega shivered.

                "Don't leave," he said softly. And this time Francis was sure he was awake.

                He pressed his lips to the shell of Arthur's ear, and whispered: "I'm not going anywhere. I'll stay right here as long as you want me. If you let me, I promise I'll take care of you and Alfred and Matthew forever.

                " _Je t'aime_ , Arthur."


	6. Renegades – Epilogue

**THE ISLES**

**SEPTEMBER**

You're a bloody _clan-whelp_?" Scott gaped. "My wee nephews have a clan-whelp's blood in them? Ah, fuck."

                Francis frowned. He glanced between Scott and Owen in misunderstanding, feeling as if he ought to be insulted but didn't know why. "My Papa was the Clan Leader. Is that a bad thing?" he asked. Beside him, Liam and Patrick snickered in mockery. He eyed them suspiciously, but focused on the two eldest. "I was given the very best of everything, you know. I've always been strong, always healthy. I was taught by the clan's most talented hunters and scholars," he added in an attempt to prove his worth. "My Papa taught me to lead."

                "I'm sure he did," said Scott condescendingly. "I'm sure you're a very gifted little clan-whelp, Mainlander."

                Owen snorted.

                Francis rolled his eyes and muttered in French.

                "Sod-off," said Arthur, plopping two-month-old Alfred into Owen's outstretched arms. "Just because you're the pack-leader now, Scott, doesn't mean you can be a gobshite to _everyone_. Besides, you'll need an advisor, a second-in-command. Who better than someone with experience leading?"

                "You're suggesting _him_?" Scott nodded at Francis, who shrugged casually. " _Awe_. Now isn't that the sweetest darn thing? An Omega standing up for his Alpha. I never would've guessed, little brother. You going to let him fight all your battles for you, Mainlander?" He tossed Francis a roasted potato, teasing him.

                Arthur sighed in defeat. "Well, I warned you," he told Francis. Matthew giggled. Arthur handed him to Scott. "Don't feed him potatoes," he said, pointing in accusation. Scott held the little pup one-handed as he ate his meal. He bobbed his head in a _yeah-yeah_ fashion. Arthur narrowed his eyes suspiciously. His cheeks were already flushed, which made the green look exceptionally bright. His movements were sluggish. The Alphas might have mistaken it for fatigue if the Omega's scent wasn't so pungent. "Owen, don't let Scott or the twins give my pups anything but milk," he said as Francis readied to leave the house. Owen saluted in good-faith. Liam and Patrick smirked impishly. "And don't keep them up too late or they'll get grumpy. Make sure they both have a bath before going to bed." Francis wrapped a guiding arm around Arthur's waist, pulling him toward the door, but Arthur barely acknowledged it. He kept talking. "Alfred will be fine, he sleeps like a rock, but Matthew needs something to sleep with; Scott's tartan, or Francis' shirt," he said in example. "And both of them like to be sung to, or talked to sleep. They just like to hear—your—voice—!" he called as he fought Francis, who tugged insistently.

                Finally, Francis gave up and scooped Arthur off his feet.

                "Don't worry, Alfred and Mathieu will be fine," he promised. "I'll be back later to check on them. We're going now," he said, waving over-the-shoulder to the Kirkland Alphas. Several sultry innuendos were cut-off when he kicked the door closed behind him.

                "Put me down," said Arthur. He biffed Francis over the head.

                Francis grinned. "No. I'm supposed to carry you over the threshold, aren't I, to officially symbolize that I've claimed you as mine?"

                Arthur scoffed, but his cheeks heated in embarrassment. "Bloody git," he muttered.

                They reached the old storehouse and Francis stopped. It had been over a year since Arthur's last Heat, yet his sweet scent still clung to every fibre, despite the frequently laundered furs and linens. Arthur felt Francis' body stiffen, and then involuntarily shiver in anticipation as his nostrils flared, breathing in the Omega's scent. Arthur's heart-rate increased in reply. He felt hot. The sensation that followed was immediate and familiar, even if he hadn't experienced it in such a long time. But the last time he had— _It was with you_. He looked at Francis. Back then he would have given anything for an Alpha to mate him— _any_ Alpha; he just needed relief—but now he felt nervous. His body was ready. It wanted to be mated, especially after so long. _This is going to be intense_ , he knew. He could already feel a tight knot of Heat-induced fervor building inside of him, making him sweat. A soft gasp escaped him; his voice shook. He clutched Francis, drawn to the Alpha's equally-eager body. _Oh_ , _gods. He looks so good. He smells so good._ _He feels so good._ He bit his lip. Yes, his body was ready. But that's not what made him hesitate. It was what would happen afterward. They already had consent from the pack-leader—Scott—to be pair-bonded. The only step left was to mate, then they would be a legal couple by clan-law. There would be no going back for either of them. They would belong only to each other, for better or worse.

                "Are you scared?" Francis asked.

                Arthur swallowed. "A little," he admitted.

                Francis set Arthur on his feet. (The Omega nearly collapsed.) Then he turned him so they were standing face-to-face. "Don't be," he said. His face was honest; his sapphire-blue eyes revealed a secret vulnerability that Arthur had misinterpreted before. His touch, when he took both of the Omega's hands, was tender but strong. Seriously, he said: "I'm not going to hurt you." The soft undertone in his voice implied it as more than a physical hurt. The Omega heard a confession in it. "I'm not going to leave you, Arthur, no matter what happens. You're my family now. You and Alfred and Mathieu. I belong with _you_." His eyes momentarily lowered to the satin-blue ribbon that Arthur wore in a braided loop around his neck, a symbol of their union. Francis had done everything he was supposed to do, albeit backwards: he had mated and impregnated Arthur, then courted him, then sworn himself to him for life. He was kind and he was patient. He never got annoyed at Arthur's hesitance; Arthur, who had barely returned any form of intimacy since their first night together as a family. The Alpha just repeated the same steadfast promise over-and-over until it had become a nightly ritual. They would lie quietly together in bed, in the bedchamber they now shared in the pack-leader's large house—now the Kirkland house—and Francis would say: _I love you_.

                He said it now, re-capturing the Omega's gaze:

                " _Je t'aime_ , Arthur."

                "I-I—I love you, too."

                The words were out before Arthur could stop them, but as soon as he saw the answering smile on Francis' face, he knew that they were true. They had been true for a long time.

                "I love you," he repeated, testing it. He had never spoken them aloud to anyone except Alfred and Matthew—and that was recent. The Kirklands were not verbally affectionate. It tasted foreign, but not bad. In fact, his lips curled into a smile as he reached up to hold Francis, winding his arms around the Alpha's neck. If there was ever a good time to confess his feelings, it was now.

                "I'm glad that it was you," he said, gazing deeply into the gorgeous blue eyes that Alfred alone had inherited. "I don't want anyone else. I never did.

                "I love you, Francis."

                In reply, Francis kissed him. His lips were warm and velvety-soft and curled into a blissful smile that Arthur happily returned. He never could have imagined being so happy.

                Then the Alpha scooped the Omega into his arms and entered the storehouse.


	7. NOTES

** THE CALL OF THE WILD **

**EXPLANATION OF TERRITORY:** The world in _The Call of the Wild_ is (loosely) based on early medieval Europe. There are no official countries, only territories belonging to each individual clan. A large territory has several clans. Depending on the territory, the clans may be unified under one ruler or not. The unified clans are called Empires.

                I'll use the Isles as an example, since it was previously seen in "Renegades". The Isles as one large territory is the equivalent of the country, but within it there are several different clans and each clan is made up of several packs. It follows the same hierarchy as most historic European nations. The Clan Leader is the absolute ruler of each clan, like a king; the pack-leader is the Clan Leader's representative in each pack, like a lord; and the pack-members are the commoners of the clan. A single territory's clans might be allies or rivals. (e.g. I used the clans of medieval Scotland as a guide: clans who constantly fought for dominance.)

                There are three large territories on the Mainland whose clans are all unified under one ruler each, like three different kingdoms. Those territories are described below as being: the Western Empire, the Eastern Empire, and the Southern Empire. These Empires are generally better politically and socially organized than the independent clans of their neighbours, and each have a standing army that employs full-time soldiers, as opposed to a militia force. This is necessary because these three Empires are old enemies of each other and have been at war for generations. Unlike the clan rivalries of the Isles, when an Empire declares war on an enemy it effects every pack within it. (i.e. On the Isles, individual clans may have rivalries with each other without effecting other clans; in the Empires, however, once war is declared then every pack in the Empire is automatically at war.)

**NOTE:** The clan that Francis formerly belonged to was an independent territory in the south-west, but it had recently (fifteen years ago) been conquered—usurped—by the Southern Empire.

**GLOSSARY OF TERMS:**

NORTHERN CLANS               Scandinavia

WESTERN EMPIRE                 The Germanic States

EASTERN EMPIRE                  The U.S.S.R.

SOUTHERN EMPIRE               The Roman Empire

THE ISLES                             The British Isles (and Ireland)

THE LOW COUNTRIES           The Netherlands


	8. First Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Interlude is set eight years after the events of "Renegades".

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):

PRUSSIA                 Gilbert Beilschmidt  
RUSSIA                   Ivan Braginsky

* * *

**WESTERN EMPIRE**

**FAR-EASTERN BORDER**

Invaders!" shouted an Alpha-pup. He grabbed an iron-headed mallet and swung forcefully against a titanic bell, his sworn duty to the pack he served. Its voice was loud and long and it seemed to reverberate throughout the pup as he struck it over-and-over again, sending vibrations up his wiry arms and into his clenched teeth. He stood atop a tall, wooden watchtower in the middle of a wet potato field, which faced eastward. "Invaders to the East! Everyone get behind the wall!" he cried as he pounded relentlessly on the bell. He struck it until he was deaf to everything else.

                In the field below, dozens of pack-members ran for the protective stonewalls of the pack's stronghold. Alphas clutched dirty agricultural tools like weapons—scythes, hoes, pitchforks—and covered the retreat of the Omegas, who dropped everything, grabbed their pups, and ran. Dozens of frightened pack-members crowded at the gates, replaced by soldiers, who charged into the field in a defensive formation. They wore black-and-white tunics and shining badges to denote their station. The opposing force wore dreary steel-grey. They emerged from the forest like an angry torrent, howling a uniform battle-cry like a behemoth to instill fear. There were too many of them and they were too organized for it to be a raid. It was a premeditated attack. The steadfast soldiers of the Western Empire growled in warning, but the Easterners didn't slow. They advanced steadily, crushing the hardy crop as they marched, destroying it.

                The young bell-ringer leapt down from the watchtower and sprinted toward the defensive line. His heart was pounding madly as his legs worked fast, carrying him. He was _very_ fast. It was why he had been given the prestigious yet dangerous job of lookout despite his being only thirteen-years-old. The Easterners' howls chased him; so did their steady pursuit. It sounded like the swell of a wicked storm. He was the last pack-member to reach the stronghold and the soldiers closed ranks as he flew past them.

                The pup's Alpha-father grabbed his skinny forearm and pulled him close. Without preface, he said:

                "Find your brother and get out. Go west. Stay off the highroad. Tell anyone you meet to evacuate. Run as fast as you can to the Great House and tell them we need reinforcements. Now go." He pushed an unsheathed dagger into the Alpha-pup's hand. "Protect your brother," said the warrior, squeezing the pup's arm so tightly it bruised. "Protect the Empire."

                The red-eyed Alpha-pup nodded bravely. He was terrified. He said: "Yes, Vater."

                "Good boy, Gilbert." Vater touched Gilbert's ghostly-pale cheek. Then he shoved the Alpha-pup back through the closing gates, and yelled:

                "NOW GO!"

* * *

The young Alpha-pup's pale face was freckled with blood. He walked slowly, like a sleepwalker, through the carnage of the battlefield, dodging dozens of mangled corpses. His comrades stepped carelessly, disregarding the dead from both sides. One spit on the face of a Western soldier after pilfering his purse. He was a captain, a huge and mean-tempered Alpha who punished the younger pups for sport. The Alpha-pup waited until he had left, then snuck over, knelt down, and closed the corpse's sightless eyes.

                He was eleven-years-old and, in accordance with the law, had been serving in the Eastern Empire's Army for nearly a year now. (Alpha-pups were conscripted at ten-years-old for ten years of mandatory service.) He had been at training in the Capital until recently, practising hand-to-hand combat, and performing the tasks that none of the older Alphas wanted to do. As a result, he and the other hundreds of conscripted Alpha-pups spent most of their early years on their hands-and-knees polishing weapons, scrubbing floors, peeling vegetables, and doing the laundry: all Omega tasks, since Omegas were not allowed in the barracks. He had never set foot on a battlefield before today. Most pups didn't see battle until they were of-age: sixteen-years-old. But the Tsar had been impatient. He hadn't wanted to wait for the more seasoned units—the Empire's main force—to return from the South. The Western Empire presented too good a target, left defenceless with most of their force in the South, as well. In truth, the Western soldiers were better trained, but they were few; the Eastern Empire had a significantly larger population that had simply overpowered the West. The Westerners had held out for as long as they could while the Eastern troops kept attacking, like a torrent of water crashing upon rocks. But eventually those rocks had crumbled and the Easterners had flooded into the pack's stronghold, slaughtering everyone: soldiers and civilians; Alphas, Omegas, and pups.

                The Alpha-pup pressed a hand to his trembling mouth when he looked down into the bloodied face of a pup younger than he. He dropped his short-sword and stumbled back, shaking. He tripped over a corpse and fell. When he looked, he saw a young Omega—seventeen, or eighteen-years-old—clutching a toddler. Both of their throats had been cut. The Alpha-pup gagged, then rolled over and vomited; retching and gasping.

                "Comrade!"

                The Alpha-pup froze. The captain's shadow fell over him.

                "On your feet, pup."

                The Alpha-pup wiped his mouth as he stood, blinking furiously to dry his eyes. He faced the captain, but he didn't look at him. He stared at the stonewall behind him.

                "Is that your sword, pup?"

                He nodded. Seconds later, the captain's fist struck him hard, sending him to the ground. His head swam for a minute, then he found the short-sword's handle shoved back into his hand. Absently, he took it.

                "It's clean," the captain said in disapproval. "Were you not ordered to leave no one alive?"

                "Yes, Captain."

                "Then why is your sword clean? Are you a coward?"

                "No, Captain."

                The captain snorted. "I think you are. I think you're too soft." He spit on the pup. "I think you need a lesson in following orders." He grabbed a handful of the pup's hair and pulled his head back, looking down into violet eyes. "Who is your commanding officer? What is your name, Comrade?"

                The Alpha-pup swallowed. "Ivan Braginsky."

                "Well, Ivan," the captain grinned wickedly, "consider this a private life-lesson."


	9. Lost Boys – Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya  
> Part Two is set fifteen years after the events of Part One. It is an M-Rated story.
> 
> For those of you who would prefer to read "Lost Boys" in Chinese, you can find it here:  
> http://starry-overslept.lofter.com/post/1cf84603_1145724c
> 
> Thank-you very much to the lovely and talented translator, noEXITs. :)

**THE CALL OF THE WILD **

**PART TWO**

**LOST BOYS**

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):

AMERICA               Alfred Kirkland

CANADA               Matthew Kirkland

ENGLAND              Arthur Kirkland

FRANCE                 Francis Bonnefoi-Kirkland

SCOTLAND            Allistor (Scott) Kirkland

WALES                   Owen Kirkland

NORTH IRELAND    Liam Kirkland

IRELAND                Patrick Kirkland

NETHERLANDS       Lars van den Berg

RUSSIA                   Ivan Braginsky

PRUSSIA                 Gilbert Beilschmidt

GERMANY              Ludwig Beilschmidt

* * *

**THE WESTERN EMPIRE**

A torrent of frothing white-water crashed over the rocks. The river was swollen from the deluge pouring from the iron-grey clouds. The gorge was flooded. The violence of the storm was the stuff of legend. It couldn't have been wetter if it had incurred a divine wrath. It was dark. It was loud. It completely drowned-out the Omega's pitiful voice as his head broke the surface, gasping. A deafening blast of thunder crashed overhead and echoed  in the twisted valley. He flailed as the current pulled him, tossing him roughly to-and-fro. His body smashed against the jagged rock of the shallow riverbed and pain radiated from his left leg, but he barely noticed. He was too afraid. His eyes searched wildly for his brother, but he couldn't see anything through the dark and spray of water. When lightning lit the sky, he was momentarily blinded.

                "M-Matt!" he yelled, swallowing a mouthful of water. _Mattie_ , _where are you_?

                He cried-out as he hit the rocky riverbank, but managed to grab a low-hanging branch and haul himself up. He crawled on his belly over the rocks, desperate to reach safety. There, he gasped and coughed. His limbs trembled from the cold and exertion. "M-Ma—" _cough_ , _cough_ "Mattie!" he screamed above the torrent. His feverish blue eyes scanned the rapids, his heart pounding, but he didn't spot his twin. It didn't matter that the current was moving fast; that it would have quickly carried Matt off. The blue-eyed Omega stayed on the riverbank, shivering and bleeding, waiting—hoping—to catch a glimpse of his brother, or _anything_ familiar.

                _Where the fuck am I_?

                "Matt-ie!"

                By nightfall, he had lost his voice. He laid on the shore, curled into a pitiful ball in defense. His cheek rested on his forearm, which was submerged in a puddle of mud. The wind lashed ice-cold rain down on him, but the Omega didn't move. He didn't have the strength. He laid on his stomach, his body aching, his leg throbbing. His clothes were torn, leaving his skin exposed, but a cool numbness was slowly overtaking him.

                _Where am I_? he wondered. _I don't like it here. I'm cold. I'm tired. I'm hungry. I'm scared._

 _I want my family. I want my Dad_ , _my Papa. I want Mattie._

_I want to go home._

* * *

A bolt of lightning struck a treetop and it caught fire. It blazed, reflected in the Omega's terrified violet eyes as he ran. He raced through a dense forest, dodging trees and slipping over the undulating terrain. He kicked-up mud as he ran. He was drenched, bruised and scratched, but fortunately intact. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it would burst. His lungs burned. He had swallowed a lot of water before getting thrown violently onto an unknown riverbank. He had blacked-out and then woken up—minutes, hours—later all alone.

                _Al—_? _Al_ , _where are you_?

                He had panicked and started to run, yelling his twin's name. He didn't know what else to do, or where else to go.

                _Where am I_? _Where is everyone_?

                His head whipped back-and-forth, curls plastered to the sides of his face. He was panting hard, but he kept running. He couldn't stop. He was afraid to stop. His eyes scanned the forest, trying to penetrate the dense curtain of rainfall, but his eyesight was blurry. He was crying. When a deafening blast of thunder crashed overhead, he shrieked like a helpless pup. Then his foot caught on an upraised root and he fell to the ground, cutting his palms.

                "Dad! Papa! Al!" he screamed. But his voice was soft, fading.

                He crawled to his knees, then his feet. Then he just stood there. He didn't know where on earth he was, so he didn't know where to go. He was alone. And he was afraid. In fact, he had never been so afraid in his life. As he looked up at the sky, letting ice-cold raindrops pelt his face, he wondered where his family was. He prayed they were safe. His parents, his uncle, and his brother were strong. They were survivors. _And me—_? _What am I_?

                _I'm scared._

                He was trembling, but not from the cold.

                _I don't like it here. I don't like being alone. I'm scared. I'm so fucking scared. Someone please find me._

                _Someone please help me._


	10. Lost Boys – Chapter One

**THE ISLES**

**ONE WEEK AGO**

Al stretched his arms overhead and yawned deeply, feeling as he always did after a Heat, exhausted and sluggish. _I need a bath_ , he thought, absently re-buttoning a loose wool shirt. A button near his pectoral was gone, leaving a noticeable gap— _immodest_ , his Omega-father chastised—but Al couldn't be bothered to fix it. Sewing was not his talent. If he asked nicely, Matt would fix it for him, and hopefully he would do it before he went into Heat.

                Al's Heat always came a week before Matt's, which made Matt's Heats easier to anticipate, but Matt had been having Heats for almost a year longer than Al. Matt had gotten his first Heat at thirteen-years-old, like their Omega-father had, but Al hadn't gotten his first Heat until he was almost of-age, which was quite late. At fifteen-years-old, Al was already taller and physically wider than the average Omega. He had inherited his Alpha-relatives' formidable size, which his uncles praised for his strength, but which Al was secretly self-conscious of. As a young pup, he had indulged in the praise of his family, feeling superior to his smaller, weaker brother. He had taken pride in his accomplishments, reveling in the fact that he was stronger and faster than Matt; proud that he was brave and unafraid to try new things; proud that he could and would—did—go against the grain. Unlike his timid twin-brother, Al had begged his uncles to teach him Alpha skills so that he might work at something more interesting than needlepoint. He had learnt fishing and hunting; archery and hand-to-hand combat; stalking and tracking, even though his Omega nose was not as keen as an Alpha's. The only thing he hadn't learnt was craftsmanship. (It took too long and was way too sedentary for his liking.) Al had always been a fast learner when he enjoyed the subject, and he loved to show-off. More than anything, he loved seeing his Alpha-father's proud smile. His Omega-father had always been less enthused:

                "Alfred is an Omega, not an Alpha," he argued, glaring at his Alpha-mate and four Alpha-brothers. "We don't need another bloody Alpha in this family!"

                Despite his attempts to engage Al in domestic arts, however, the Omega-pup was helpless. He didn't want to learn how to sew and cook (though, he was a naturally gifted cook); he didn't want to tend a garden; or spin wool; or wait on his Alpha-relatives. He hated studying botany and biology texts. In truth, he barely saw the use in learning to read at all. He found it all exceptionally boring. And it was _very_ discouraging to find himself inferior to Matt for once, who was as obedient an apprentice as their Omega-father could hope for. ("Why can't you be more like Matthew?" he would say to Al, unaware of how his comment stung Al's pride.)

                _Be more like Matthew_.

                Matt, who was meek and mild-mannered— _skittish_ , Al thought—and never got underfoot. Matt, who always did as  he was told without hesitance or variation. Matt, who had been spoiled by his Alpha-relatives since birth. Matt, who was adept at playing the role that society had designated for him. Matt, whom the pack's Alphas all loved.

                Al had always been his brother's protector, shielding Matt from the unruly Alpha-pups, who had liked to play mean tricks on the pack's Omega-pups. But as they aged, Al started to realize that those same joking Alpha-pups were no longer interested in toying with Matt; rather, they had started vying for Matt's attention. A few had even brazenly expressed their intentions directly to Al's face:

                "Your brother is the most gorgeous Omega in the pack, Al. I want him to be my mate when we're older."

                Al couldn't deny Matt's beauty, but nor could he deny that he had felt slighted by his Alpha friends' complete disregard for the fact that he, too, was an Omega.

                "Why not me?" he had asked, to which they had all laughed.

                "C'mon, Al, really—? You're, like, practically one of the Alphas. You're our friend," they said, intending it as a compliment, but it had only made Al feel undesirable.

                As Al walked back from the storehouse to the family's house, he spotted his brother in the vegetable garden. Since the Alpha-pups had started favouring Matt, Al had been secretly jealous of his twin-brother's good-looks. Matt looked like an Omega should. He was tall, yes, but slight-figured and willowy. He had inherited the artistic features—long eyelashes, full lips, and soft curls—of their Alpha-father's bloodline; and if his delicate limbs, slender waist, and wide, pup-bearing hips weren't enticing enough, Matt had a _very_ pretty face. His best feature, in Al's opinion, was his eyes. Matt had big violet eyes, a hue that rivaled spring flowers for vibrancy. Al had never met anyone with violet eyes before. It was just another thing that made Matt _special._ Al had inherited his Alpha-father's blue eyes, and, despite his Omega-father's preference for them ("I'm so glad you got your Papa's beautiful eyes," he often said), Al hoped that his pups would inherit Matt's eye-colour, not his own.

                _If I ever have pups_ , he thought, feeling sulky. _If I ever find an Alpha-mate._

                Al eyed the yellow daffodil crowning a pile of carrots beside Matt, no doubt a gift from an infatuated Alpha. Al had never received more than a high-five from his Alpha friends, certainly never a gift from a suitor.

                Sometimes, he really hated Matt.

                Then Matt looked up and saw Al approaching, and he disregarded the daffodil and a happy smile shaped his lovely lips. And Al's envy fled, replaced by undeniable affection. He loved Matt very, _very_ much. They were more than twin-brothers; they were best-friends. Al's insecurities weren't Matt's fault, after all. In fact, most of the time Matt was completely oblivious to his own appeal. He had never done anything to intentionally hurt Al (or anyone else). His view of the world was exactly what the overprotective Kirkland family had crafted it to be. _I'm sorry_ , _Mattie_ , Al apologized in secret. He would never wish ill upon Matt. He was Matt's protector. Now that they were fifteen-years-old, of-age by clan-law, they needed to rely on each other now more than ever, especially with hungry (horny) Alphas sniffing about. Omegas, Al thought, should stick together.

                "Hey, Al," Matt greeted cheerfully. "How are you feeling?"

                Al shrugged. "Tired," he said.

                "You've got something on your cheek," Matt said. Without asking, he licked the edge of a linen handkerchief and wiped Al's face.

                " _Ach_ —! Stop it!" Al protested, trying to dodge. "Stop mothering me!"

                "Hold still," Matt disregarded, scrubbing at Al's cheek. "Do you really want to go walking around with Heat-slick on your face?"

                Reddening, Al conceded. "I need a bath," he mumbled.

                "I'll heat the kettle for you," Matt offered, leading Al toward the house. "Are you hungry?"

                "No," Al lied. _I'm not hungry_ , _I'm starving_.

                "Al." Matt's face twisted pitifully. If he wasn't so fragile, Al would have hit him. "You've been in Heat for four days, you've got to eat something to recover your strength."

                "Mattie, I'm really not hungry," Al insisted.

                The truth was, Al had started to limit his food intake, eating less-and-less at each meal in an attempt to lose weight. He was afraid of growing any bigger. He was already as tall or taller than several Alphas; he didn't want to be bigger than them, too. If he starved himself—just a little bit—then maybe he could slim down to a regular Omega size, like Matt. The last thing Al wanted was to _recover his strength_. Sure, he constantly felt kind of sick and dizzy, but by now he had gotten used to the uncomfortable feeling of always being hungry.

                As a change of topic, he pointed to the daffodil. "Who's that from?"

                Matt glanced at it, then tensed. "Oh, uh... Alec Frazier," he said sheepishly.

                Al felt suddenly as if Matt had punched him. He felt hollow; not so hungry anymore. Alec Frazier had been Al's best hunting-partner since they were pups, and Al had had a crush on the Alpha for nearly as long. "Oh," he said anticlimactically.

                "He asked if I would go with him to the Hunter's Moon Festival this weekend. I said no," Matt added quickly, sounding guilty. Matt knew how much Al liked Alec. (Al had never been good at hiding his feelings.)

                Al swallowed. "I need a bath," he repeated. Then he stalked inside.

* * *

Al was glaring at his half-naked reflection in the looking-glass, trying to reshape his figure by force, when his Omega-father walked in.

                "Alfred," said Arthur, frowning suspiciously. "What are you doing?"

                Al faced his Omega-father, trying to blink the tears from his eyes, but Arthur saw. There was no point lying after that. "Alec asked Matt to the Hunter's Moon Festival," he said dejectedly.

                Arthur's critical look morphed into sympathy. "Oh, I'm sorry, love."

                As soon as his Omega-father's skinny arms wrapped around Al, he broke down. Arthur was the only person whom Al cried in front of, trusting his Omega-father's discretion. He led Al to the bed, where they sat. (The eiderdown mattress sunk beneath his weight, Al noted unhappily.) He clutched Arthur tightly, seeking comfort as he buried his face in an olive-green shift that smelled like lye. "What's wrong with me?" he asked in self-pity. "Why am I like this?"

                "Alfred," said Arthur sternly. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with you."

                "Then why doesn't anyone want me?"

                "Everyone loves you—"

                "But nobody _wants_ me," Al reiterated. He sat up, daring his Omega-father to disagree with him. "Everyone wants Matt."

                "You can't blame your brother—" Arthur started, but Al interrupted.

                "Just once, could you take my side?" he snapped brashly. "Just once, could you forget how fucking _perfect_ Mattie is and tell me that I'm just as good an Omega as he is?"

                Arthur was taken aback by Al's sudden un-Omega-like aggression. Open-mouthed, he floundered. "Alfred, you know how proud I am of you, but you and Matthew are _very_ different—"

                Al snorted humourlessly and rolled his eyes. Abruptly, he stood. "Forget it."

* * *

Matt took the perfect yellow daffodil and chucked it out. He hadn't wanted to accept it, knowing exactly how Al would feel about it, but even though Matt had rejected Alec's invitation, the young Alpha had insisted that he keep the flower as a gift. _I don't want any more gifts_! he thought, feeling ungrateful; then guilty. He hated rejecting the clan's Alphas, who he had known since birth, and who always looked so crestfallen when Matt refused their advances. But neither did he want to accept any of them. The thought of being alone with an Alpha whom he wasn't related to scared him. (Matt had inherited Arthur's genetic affliction of panic-attacks.) His family might have thought him endearingly naive about it all, but Matt knew what it was Alphas did to Omegas when they were alone.

                _That's not going to be me_ , he had decided long ago. He and his brother had been born from a Heat-induced union, after all. If it could happen to their tough-fibred Omega-father, who had been guarded by four Alpha-brothers, what chance did shy, weak-willed Matt have against an Alpha's desire?

                Matt wished that he was like Al. No one would dare try to take advantage of Al like they constantly did Matt. Al's size and self-confidence was intimidating. He wasn't an Omega the Alphas could order around or walk-all-over. It helped, of course, that Al was friends with most of the pack's Alphas, having spent his childhood playing together and learning with them. The Alphas respected Al in a way they respected no other Omega, and because of it they genuinely cared for him. He was more than just breeding-stock to them; he was their friend.

                Matt wished that he had the self-confidence to interact with the Alphas like Al did. It always looked like fun, but Matt had been omitted from their games. He was too delicate, they said. He wasn't strong enough or fast enough to play with them. His Omega-ness would only slow them down. He might get hurt. His weakness was an opinion that his overprotective family stressed, as well. It wasn't that Matt particularly wanted to learn Alpha skills like Al did, but it would have been nice to be invited at least. He hated being left behind every time his Alpha-father and uncles took Al on a long hunting or fishing trip, because they didn't think Matt capable of keeping up. _That's fine_ , he would think bitterly, watching them all leave, _I'll just stay here and do laundry then._ But he couldn't complain about it, not when they smiled and brought him gifts upon their return. Besides, with Al playing Alpha, their Omega-father had needed Matt to be an Omega. It was tough living in a house with five Alphas who couldn't take care of themselves. His Alpha-relatives relied heavily on Arthur and Matt to be the Omegas of the house; otherwise, nothing would ever get done. Matt had realized early on that if he rebelled like Al always did, then Arthur would be stuck doing everything alone. It  just wouldn't have been fair. Arthur was right: the family didn't need another Alpha, they needed Matt. So Matt had resolved to be exactly what they needed; what they wanted.

                _I'll balance Al_ , Matt thought. He would let Al choose freely what he wanted to be, and then fulfil whatever it was his brother lacked. It meant letting Al choose, always, but it was easier than the alternative of trying to change Al. It wasn't fair, but it was necessary, and Matt had resigned himself to it long ago. _Whatever he decides to be_ , _I'll be the opposite._

                If Al learnt to be a hunter, then Matt learnt to be a homemaker. If Al learnt to be a defender, then Matt learnt to be a caretaker. If Al learnt the feeling of pain, then Matt learnt how to nurse it. If Al was loud and boisterous, Matt was quiet and submissive. His family didn't need two rebels. His Omega-father would have a stroke if he had to deal with two unruly Omega-pups, and his Alpha-father would be heartbroken if he had no one to coddle and spoil. But most importantly—

                If Al was brave, then Matt wouldn't have to be.

                Matt heard his Alpha-father's rhythmic footsteps before he entered the house's common-room. His ears were exceptionally sensitive, even for an Omega.

                " _Bonjour_ , _Mathieu_ , _chéri_ ," said Francis cheerfully.

                " _Bonjour_ , _Papa_ ," Matt replied. (He had learnt French because Francis had wanted them to, but Al had given up fast. He disliked studying. So Matt had studied extra hard to compensate and please his Alpha-father.)

                "Such sad eyes today," Francis noted. Gently, he lifted Matt's chin and smiled in encouragement. "Smile for Papa, _chéri_. You look so beautiful when you smile."

                Matt had felt like smiling less-and-less lately, but he forced it to please his family.

                "Ah! So lovely!" Francis kissed Matt's pale-blonde head, then moved on.

                Matt saw his reflection in the looking-glass and cocked his head. He showed himself the same smile he used to please his family, but it looked false to his eyes. _What is it about me that's so appealing_? he wondered skeptically, turning his head from side-to-side. Compared to his twin-brother, who was beautifully vibrant, Matt looked leeched of colour. _I look like a paler_ , _shorter_ , _weaker version of Al_. Matt knew that he possessed a very desirable figure for pup-bearing: soft and supple with wide hips. He knew that he was exactly what society expected an Omega to look like; or rather, what society _wanted_ an Omega to look like (—which was anything weaker than an Alpha). _I'm nothing special_ , Matt thought, omitting the rarity of his eye-colour. In his opinion, Al was the exceptional Omega; Al was the one who looked like something exotic. There was something majestic about Al, like a lion; fearsome but stunning to look upon. He was tall and lean and he could move his lithe, athletic body in a way that whispered of a secret strength. The Alpha who pair-bonded with Al would be very lucky, indeed. Not only would he get an Omega who actually wanted to be his friend, but an Omega whose beauty outshone everyone else's.

                _Why the hell—_ when Al was right there in front of them— _would any Alpha want me_? Matt thought, baffled.

                Al looked and felt like sunshine; Matt looked and felt like ice. Al's body was languid; Matt's was tense. Al was confident; Matt was self-conscious. Al was healthy; no doubt, he could bear pups. Matt looked faint half the time and was secretly terrified of letting an Alpha mate him. Al was brave. Matt was not.

                _I wish I was brave_ , he thought, staring out the window at a world beyond his reach.

                Just then, his uncles paraded loudly into the house. "Mattie, honey, you here—?" called Scott. "We're fucking starving! Make us something to eat, hon—?"

                Matt glanced back at his pale reflection. He plastered that false smile to his lips, and called: "Of course! I'll be right there!"

* * *

That night, Scott called a meeting that the Omegas were not privy to. "Al, Mattie," he said. Matt was offering Owen a plate of shortbread, but paused. Scott gestured for his violet-eyed nephew. He took a handful of the biscuits and then patted Matt's pale-blonde head. "Off to bed," he ordered, jutting his chin in the direction of the twins' shared room. Al wanted to protest; Matt could see it on his face, but wisely he obeyed the family's head Alpha. Together, the twins left the common-room, passing their parents on the way out. Francis smiled and kissed them, but Arthur's demeanor was anxious. He barely managed an absent, "goodnight, loves," before he followed Francis into the common-room. Al and Matt were halfway up the stairs when they heard Scott's voice:

                "Out, freckle-face. This is Alpha business."

                "If it involves my pups then it is _very much_ my business," Arthur retorted.

                Al and Matt exchanged a glance, curiosities peaked. Silently, they climbed up the steep wooden staircase that led to the second-level of the house—the pack-leader's house; it was the only two-level house in the pack—but instead of entering their own bedchamber, they snuck into Liam and Patrick's, which was located directly above the common-room. At the foot of Liam's bed, Al had years ago found a hole in the floorboard big enough to spy on the room below. Quietly, they sat. (Omegas could move _very_ quietly when they wanted to.) Al hunched his shoulders and leant down to see better, but Matt stayed statuesque, letting his exceptionally sensitive ears create the picture for him.

                "—it involves our upcoming journey to the Mainland," Scott was saying.

                Matt wasn't at all surprised. He had been helping Scott and Francis prepare for the journey for weeks; so had Arthur. The Alphas had needed several new articles of clothes dyed, altered, and embroidered. (Al's hands couldn't be trusted with such delicate work, nor could his patience.) Matt's job was to do the laundering and sewing while Arthur spent long, tedious hours finely stitching a colourful crest to each item. As the Clan Leader's official envoys, Scott and Francis—the pack-leader and second-in-command—had been ordered to wear the crest as a representation of the clan while visiting the Mainland. Al and Matt weren't supposed to know why Scott and Francis were visiting the Mainland, specifically the Low Countries, but Francis had volunteered Matt to help him translate several written documents one night, and though he might not understand the finer details, he knew that they were trade agreements. It was delicate information, Francis said.

                "The Clan Leader wants a free-trade treaty with a clan on the Mainland," he had explained. "He wants Scott and I to broker it, but nobody else knows about it. Nothing has been confirmed yet. The last thing we want is for the other clans to get word of what we're trying to do and offer the Low-Landers a better deal. That's why it has to be kept quiet, Mathieu. Don't tell anyone, _s'il vous plâit_."

                Matt had promised to keep the diplomatic trip within the family, which technically gave him liberty to tell Al.

                Al had been excited upon hearing the news, and Matt had had to make him swear not to brag to his friends. "Do you think Papa will bring us back presents from the Mainland?" he hoped.

                _As long as Papa and Scott come back from the Mainland_ , _I don't care_ , Matt had thought.

                As far as the Islanders were concerned, the continent across the Channel was a place better avoided. Only a handful of pack-members were mated to Mainlanders, Arthur included; the rest pretended it didn't exist. (The North, of course, was a different story. Reports of Northern invaders were becoming more and more frequent, and had been since Al and Matt's birth.) Arthur called the Mainland _dangerous_ , and, despite his birth-right, Francis didn't disagree. Their Alpha-father had been chased away from his home on pain-of-death when he was only fifteen-years-old, which, incidentally, was how he had come to be on the Isles in the first place. But despite his having had a _happy childhood_ , Francis preferred not to talk about his former clan. Matt realized that asking about it drudged-up hurtful memories for his Alpha-father, so he stopped asking. Because of that, everything he and Al knew of the Mainland was poisoned by ages-old rumours and the Islanders' prejudice.

                There were really only two things that Matt knew for certain:

                First, that the Mainland was an unimaginably vast continent, which stretched farther across the world than anyone had ever been, and that the tens of thousands of clans who lived there had unified long ago into three distinct Empires.

                And second, that those three Empires were constantly at war.

                But the clans of the Low Countries lived individually from the Empires—for now. And it was there that Scott and Francis were journeying.

                _They'll be perfectly safe_ , Matt thought, hoped.  They were the pack-leader and the second-in-command, after all, positions requiring no small degree of capability. In two days, the duo would board a ship to the Low Countries, where they would broker a free-trade agreement; then, business concluded, they would return. The whole journey was not supposed to take more than a fortnight. _There's nothing to worry about_ , Matt knew. Owen would be left in charge as acting-leader of the pack and of the Kirkland family. And if he wasn't enough, Liam and Patrick had become two of the fiercest and most reputable fighters in the whole clan. The Kirkland Omegas would be well taken care of in their Alpha's stead.

                _I shouldn't fret_. _I'm not even supposed to know about it_ , Matt reminded himself. _It doesn't have anything to do with me—_

                "I want to take Al and Mattie with us," said Scott.

                Matt's stomach flipped. His initial reaction was shock, then fear. Quickly, he pressed his hand to Al's mouth, silencing his brother's gasp. Al's eyes looked like bejeweled saucers. He stared at Matt in disbelief. His face harboured an element of excitement that Matt did not share. Tactfully, he lifted a finger to his lips to indicate silence. He didn't want to miss the exchange that followed:

                "You _what_?" Arthur yelled. He sounded just as scared as Matt felt, but angrier. "Alfred and Matthew are _not_ going to the Mainland!" he proclaimed sternly.

                " _Chéri_ ," said Francis beseechingly, "Scott and I have already agreed that it's in everyone's best interest to bring the pups with us—"

                "No, you can't!" Arthur refused.

                "Sit down, freckle-face," said Scott. "The pups are of-age now, and—"

                "That's exactly why they shouldn't go!" Arthur argued, ignoring Scott's order. "Alfred and Matthew have only just turned fifteen! They should be going to the Stones to find mates, not across the bloody Channel!"

                " _Sit down_!" Scott barked.

                Arthur flinched; so did Matt. He leant forward to peer through the hole. He saw Liam and Patrick share a weary look. He saw Owen purse his lips, keeping quiet. He saw Scott's cheeks flush, holding back his temper. He saw Francis rise in concern for his Omega-mate. He saw Arthur standing in a circle of firelight surrounded by the Alphas, refusing to comply. He looked distraught, but determined. Matt didn't know many Omegas intimately (he didn't really know _anyone_ intimately, to be honest), but his Omega-father was one of the bravest people on the Isles. Arthur might have been outnumbered by Alphas who were bigger and stronger than he; he might have been frightened, but it didn't matter, because Arthur Kirkland didn't abandon his arguments lightly. It was something that his violet-eyed pup had always admired about him. It was something that Al had inherited, his stubbornness. (It was why Al and Arthur didn't always get along. They both had such bold personalities.) Matt watched his Omega-father engage in a stare-down with Scott, whose equally-green gaze glared at his younger brother in threat. Matt felt the force of that glare, even though it was not directed at him. Matt loved Scott, and he knew that Scott would never hurt him, but even so the timid Omega couldn't imagine ever disobeying the family's head Alpha, the pack-leader. Even though Arthur eventually did lower his gaze in compliance, he had lasted much longer than any Omega (or many Alphas) could have.

                It was then that Arthur changed his tactic and glanced helplessly at Francis, who extended his hand. It was a subtle order— _come here_ , _Arthur_ —but Arthur accepted. He took Francis' hand and sat down beside him, squeezing the Alpha's hand between his own. The plea in his eyes seemed to say: _Please_ , _Francis_ , _don't let Scott take our pups_!

                Though Matt admired his Omega-father's tenacity, seeing fear in Arthur's eyes scared him.

                His violet eyes flickered nervously to Al, who was watching the exchange hungrily.

                "It's okay, _chéri_ ," Francis said softly, kissing Arthur's temple. His sinuous voice had a calming effect, like the smooth flow of undisturbed water. Matt felt it instantly and took comfort in his Alpha-father's words.

                Scott, having diluted his (rather explosive) temper, said: "Art," regaining the attention of everyone present. He eyed his Omega-brother carefully, and diplomatically said:

                "It's _because_ Al and Mattie are of-age now that I want them to come with us to the Low Countries. The Clan Leader's hope for a free-trade agreement with the Low-Landers is not a simple thing," he explained. "If Francis and I can broker a deal with their leader then the benefits will be invaluable to our clan. It could change our whole way of life, aye? It'll mean not endangering dozens of pack-members every year on weeks-long hunting trips. It'll mean not starving to death if we can't store enough food, or if the crops fail, or are burnt, or are stolen. It'll mean a profit for the goods we sell, not only for us but for the Low-Landers, as well. Francis and I have spent the past six months working on a contract; this visit is the pivotal point. If their leader rejects our contract, we won't get a second chance. There will be dozens of other clans who can afford to offer the Low-Landers a better deal than we can. That's why we have to make our first offer the best possible offer. We need to offer their leader something he can't refuse."

                "I understand all that," Arthur allowed. He sounded testy. "What I don't understand is what you need Alfred and Matthew for."

                Scott hesitated.

                Delicately, Francis said: "The Clan Leader of the Low Countries has an Alpha-son who just turned nineteen and he's not yet pair-bonded."

                Matt saw his own disbelief mirrored on Arthur's face. It took Al a moment to comprehend, but when he did, Matt felt him exhale a curse. As a precaution, Matt pressed his hand tighter to Al's lips.

                Arthur's eyes widened, staring at Francis as if seeing him anew. Suddenly, he wrenched his hands free from the Alpha's grasp and stood, glaring between his mate and four brothers despite Scott's blatant disapproval. "You're talking about selling my pups!" he accused them, fire rekindled. He stared dangerously at Francis, shocked at his Alpha-mate's gall. Matt had never seen him glare at Francis so openly before. The Omega's eyes blazed with a green spitfire that neither of his pups had inherited.

                "Arthur, no." Francis stood too, but Arthur stepped back, avoiding his touch. "We're not _selling_ them. Do you really think I would even consider involving Alfred and Mathieu if it wasn't the best possible option for everyone?" Earnestly, he said: "I love them, Arthur. You know I love them more than anything in the world, which is why I want only the best for them. This contract—" Arthur grimaced; Francis started over, changing his word-choice. "Scott and I aren't trying to _sell_ the pups, we're trying to negotiate a very, _very_ good match for one of them."

                Scott nodded in agreement. He said:

                "Don't make the mistake of thinking you're the only one who loves Al and Mattie, Art. They're my kin, too. They're my only heirs, remember? They're the closest thing I've got to pups of my own," he admitted, showing a pinch of vulnerability. "Do you really think I'd let an Alpha touch either one of them unless I knew for certain that they were going to be taken care of? And they will be," he continued, before Arthur could interrupt. "The Low-Landers are very wealthy, and the leader is a good Alpha. I haven't met his son, but I've been promised good things; I've heard good things. The son will inherit his father's position someday, the highest position in the whole clan. You urged me once to make the clan-whelp here"—he jutted his chin at Francis—"my second-in-command because he had been bred to rule; because he had been given the best of everything, remember? Well, this Low-Lander pup is the same. He's already an accomplished Alpha. He has everything he could want, except an Omega-mate. That's why I need Al and Mattie," he said bluntly. "I— _we_ ," he included Francis, "are going to give him the choice between the two of them in exchange for signing the treaty. Whichever pup he chooses, Al or Mattie, will be well provided for. He'll live in luxury compared to this. It's a good match. And it's necessary, Art. If the Low-Lander chooses either Al or Mattie to pair-bond with, then the treaty gets signed and everybody wins."

                "Except that Alfred or Matthew, whichever one he chooses," Arthur mocked Scott's tone, "will have to stay on the Mainland. He'll have to live in a foreign clan with a total stranger for a mate, knowing that his uncle, his _Papa_ ," he spat angrily at Francis, "sold him for a trade alliance. It doesn't matter how you phrase it, Scott, I'm still losing one of my pups."

                "They're Omegas, Art."

                Everyone turned to look at Owen, who had been quiet until then. He cocked his head, chocolate-brown curls falling into his face, making him look younger than he was. He didn't look as weathered as the others, having retained a significant portion of his teenaged beauty. His voice was soft in sympathy, but it harboured a stony undertone that indicated a degree of seriousness rarely shared.

                "There was always a chance that Alfred and Matthew were going to have to leave the clan," he said logically. "Omegas belong with their Alphas, and yours are of-age now. They don't belong here in this house with us anymore. It's time for them to start their own lives, their own families. It's natural," he said, as if that softened the blow. "You'll always be their Omega-father, Art, but it's time for you to let Alfred and Matthew go."

                Arthur's shoulders trembled, wanting to argue, but he didn't. Slowly, he bowed his head in defeat; or—

                The green-eyed Omega suddenly inhaled, swallowing a gasp. In horror, Matt saw him press a hand to his lips to stifle a sob. He had never seen his Omega-father cry before. It was shattering.

                Immediately, Francis collected Arthur into his arms, and this time Arthur didn't protest. He leant into his Alpha-mate's embrace to hide his face.

                "You're not losing both of them, Art," Scott said. It was an awkward attempt to soothe his brother's distress, but he soldiered on. "One of them will come back with us. He'll mate a local Alpha, who will inherit my position as the next pack-leader and live here in the clan—"

                "Scott," said Francis authoritatively, "I think we're done for tonight."

                Quietly the small party disbanded, leaving Francis alone with Arthur. Matt's big violet eyes stared unblinking at his parents. He didn't even realize his hand was still pressed to Al's mouth until Al pulled gently down on his twin's wrist. Matt's whole body had gone rigid, like prey in the face of danger. He tensed at Al's touch, lifting his eyes slowly to meet those of his blue-eyed brother. Al's expression was puzzled, but not afraid. Al never looked afraid. Despite his uncertainty, his face was readable, and in those pretty sapphire-blue eyes Matt read excitement. It was muddied with apprehension and disbelief, but there was no mistaking the spark of excitement. Al had always liked the challenge of trying new things—the riskier, the better—and there was no doubt that he felt the same about this unexpected turn-of-events. A journey to the Mainland was novel. Al and Matt would be the first pups of their generation to leave the Isles and cross into that unknown territory across the Channel. Matt doubted if Al was even thinking of _why_ they were going, focused only on the fact that they were, indeed, going. The reality of their purpose would hit him later, but just then Matt saw adventure in his eyes.

                Matt, however, felt suddenly ill. His chest tightened and his temperature spiked, making him perspire as his heart beat hard. He clawed at his shirt buttons, feeling constricted. Only when Al grabbed his hands and pulled him against his chest in a hug did Matt realize he was having a panic-attack. He clutched his brother tightly as Al rubbed his back, whispering words of reassurance that Matt didn't hear. Matt bit his lip, trying to stay quiet. Al's presence, his body, offered little comfort. As much as he pretended otherwise, Al was an Omega, like Matt, which meant that he was just as powerless.

                "It's okay, Mattie. It's going to be okay," he said. "Papa's not going to let anything bad happen to us."

                Matt, however, barely registered Al's voice.

                _The Mainland._ His heart pounded. _They're taking us to the Mainland. To sell us_. Arthur's words repeated in Matt's mind, over-and-over. _They're selling us to the Mainlanders as collateral. To a stranger. A Mainland stranger. To be his mate_ ; _to breed his pups_ —!

                "Mattie—?" Al pet Matt's curls. "It's okay. It'll be an adventure, right? And you heard Scottie, only one of us has to stay with the Low-Landers; the other one gets to come home."

                Al's tone was lighthearted, but it only confirmed Matt's suspicion that he wasn't taking the threat seriously. As daring as Al was, Matt was sure that his brother didn't truly understand the implications of being mated.

                It wasn't something the adults talked about with Al and Matt present. The family was rather protective of the twins' innocence and tried to preserve it. But while they guarded their tongues, they did not guard their library, and Matt had had the displeasure of reading too many books on the subject of pregnancy from too young an age. Because of that, he had a vivid idea of what to expect. But Al, who disliked studying in any capacity, did not. The only texts he had ever enjoyed were the fairytales the family used to read them as pups. They were Old Romances and heroic tales of adventure that Al had loved to play-act with his Alpha friends, insisting that he not be the damsel-in-distress just because he was the only Omega. (Unless, of course, Alec Frasier was playing the hero.) It was always light and fun and idealistic, but it wasn't real.

                _You've heard too many fairytales_ , Matt thought, blaming Al's naivety on his affinity for fiction. The faraway look in his brother's blue eyes was troubling. His head was full of nonsense as far as Matt was concerned; stories that stopped at the rescue, the wedding, the happily-ever-after without ever delving deeper into life beyond the tale. Al's favourite stories were about heroes who slew dragons and rescued damsels; or knights-in-shining-armour who freed bewitched maidens. Those stories were about love, and loyalty, and devotion; admirable sentiments, but intangible. They starred dashing heroes and beautiful maidens, characters which set impossibly high standards for infatuated pups. Matt had tried to tell Al: "It's false, it's not real." But Al refused to listen (or care).

                _Those tales are just stories_ , Matt knew. _Reality is painful._ According to Arthur's library: _Reality is letting an Alpha possess you_ , _own you. It's letting him mate and impregnate you over-and-over again_. _It's months of sickness and blood and pain_ _constantly repeated until you're completely spent_ ; _until your looks go_ , _and you can't conceive_ , _and he doesn't want you anymore. Reality for an Omega is serving someone else's purpose until all of your value is gone and you're left with nothing_ : _alone_ , _used_ , _wasted_ , _ugly._

                Matt had always known what his future would be, but though he had resigned himself to a life of keeping-house and raising pups, the thought of being claimed by an Alpha still scared him. It was something that he had kept secret from everyone, including Al. Not even Al knew that Matt had cried the night of their fifteenth birthday, because he knew what it signaled, even if Al didn't. It had been bad enough thinking that he would someday mate an Islander and be taken away from his family, but now—knowing what he did of Scott's plan—that seemed like a pale threat in comparison. Now, to think that he might have to mate a complete stranger from a foreign land so far away and stay there with him, live there isolated from everything he knew—! _I don't even speak their language_! It was terrifying. He had _only just_ turned fifteen, after all. He wasn't ready to be mated and bred.

                _It'll be so lonely_.

                A teardrop fell onto Al's shoulder; then another. Matt buried his face.

                _I don't want to go. Please_ , _Papa_ , _don't make me go_!

                "It's okay, Mattie. It doesn't have to be you," Al said, but his voice had lost its calm. Matt heard doubt when he said: "Maybe the Low-Lander will choose me for his mate."

                Matt squeezed his brother, grateful for the lie. But it _was_ a lie. The Low-Lander would choose Matt, just like everyone else. Of that, he was certain.

* * *

That night, Al laid awake in his bed, unable to sleep. He stared at the thatch-roof, listening to Matt toss-and-turn on the opposite side of the room; listening to Matt whine. Al pitied his twin-brother, but he was also annoyed by Matt's behaviour. It wasn't his twin's sensitivity that bothered Al, though. It was his family's reaction to it. He knew that as soon as Matt showed any sign of distress, the overprotective family would be at his beck-and-call. They would coddle him to soothe his fears and in doing so would forget about Al. Al, who was also a potential option for collateral. But in the family's eyes Al was strong and independent, whereas Matt was weak and in need of protection. That was the excuse. It had always been the excuse, whether they verbalized it or not. What they neglected to realize was that just because Al acted the tough-fibred Omega didn't mean that he didn't need or _want_ his family's attention. It was Al who liked physical affection, after all; Al who liked to cuddle. It was Al who loved the centre-of-attention and secretly hated when Matt stole it from him. As pups, Al had felt sympathy for his shy twin-brother and had always taken it upon himself to shield Matt from unwanted attention, which, incidentally, ensured that Al was always in the spotlight. But since Matt's first Heat, like everything else, that had changed. Now, when Matt stepped into a room, everyone stopped to stare at him. When he spoke, everyone smiled and complimented him. In truth, the only thing that kept competitive Al from punching his twin was the knowledge that Matt absolutely detested it. He hated being the centre-of-attention more than anything, because it made him feel anxious and self-conscious, though Al couldn't think of why. It baffled Al, who would have killed for the compliments Matt effortlessly received and then refused. It made the blue-eyed Omega feel inadequate.

                Inadvertently, it made Al think of Alec Frasier, his Alpha friend who would always be just that: a friend.

                _If the Low-Lander chooses Matt and Matt has to stay on the Mainland_ , _maybe Alec will choose me_ —

                Al stopped abruptly. He slapped his cheeks, berating himself. How could he even think something so awful? Jealousy was the ugliest vice, so said the fairytales he cherished.

                Influenced by fictional tales, Al had always dreamt of falling desperately in love, just like the characters in his books. He knew, of course, that he wasn't like the Omegas in those tales. He wasn't sweet, or delicate, or helpless—like Matt—and, frankly, he didn't want to be (helpless, that is). But that's the type of Omega that Alphas wanted. No Alpha wanted to feel emasculated by his Omega-mate, and Al didn't blame them. Instead, he unintentionally—and unfairly—blamed Matt for being _so fucking perfect_. All Al had ever wanted was to fall in love with an Alpha who loved him in return. So, was it really any wonder why watching Matt continuously reject declarations of love and affection made Al boil with envy?

                _Where's_ my _happily-ever-after_? he wondered sadly. _Is Matt's absence really the price I'd have to pay for an Alpha to look at me like that_?

                Feeling dejected, Al didn't hear his parents' footsteps until they were standing right outside the twins' door, which was conveniently open a crack. It was Arthur's voice that interrupted Al's self-pity. He said:

                " _Francis_."

                Al had never heard his Omega-father sound so helpless.

                Francis replied in a gentle tone. "I know, _chéri_ ," he said, guessing at Arthur's concern. "I'm not ready to lose Alfred or Mathieu either, but there's nothing I can do. They're fifteen-years-old now. They're adults by clan-law, and you know the laws regarding adult Omegas." Al leant sideways to peer into the corridor. "Alfred and Mathieu would've been claimed by Alphas this year regardless of what we want for them. If not in the Low Countries, then at the Stones. You said so yourself. It's illegal for adult Omegas to live in the clan without an Alpha to provide for him—"

"Yes, I know," Arthur snapped. "I know the bloody clan-laws, Francis. Believe me," he added, losing his fight almost instantly, "if anyone knows the clan-laws about unclaimed or pregnant Omegas, I do."

                Francis paused. "Yes," he agreed. "I'm sorry."

                An uncomfortable silence stretched for several minutes, both adults just standing there, eyes downcast. Al pursed his lips, trying, for once, not to draw attention to himself. Finally, Arthur's husky voice whispered:

                "I don't want to lose them, Francis. I love them both so much, I can't—"

                Uninvited, Francis closed the gap between them and drew Arthur against his body. Al didn't see Arthur seek the intimacy; Francis just did it naturally. A second later, Al heard his Omega-father crying, which was an unfamiliar sound. Arthur rarely showed weakness in front of his pups; certainly never tears. It made Al feel nervous, like seeing an unshakable rock suddenly break. But Francis held him together. The way the Alpha held his sad Omega-mate and whispered words of love and reassurance made Al's heart ache.

                _I want someone to hold me like that_ , he thought. _Not just my family. I want an Alpha-mate to love me the way Papa loves Dad._

                Al knew that his parents were (unbearably) happy, which often included physical affection, which made their blue-eyed pup grimace in feigned disgust more often than not. (" _Ach_ —! Do you have to do that in front of me?") What he kept private, however, was that Al dreamt of being held just like that; of feeling that level of intimacy with someone else, someone he loved. It meant trusting someone else with his heart, which was scary, but exciting as well.

                _I wonder_ , Al thought, absently spying on his parents, _will the Low-Lander want my heart_ , _or Matt's_?

                "It's okay," Francis repeated, kissing Arthur's forehead. "It's going to be okay. Don't fret, _chéri_. I promise, I'll take good care of the pups on the Mainland—"

                "I'm going, too."

                The brazen statement took Francis and Al off-guard.

                "Arthur—"

                "Don't argue with me," Arthur said, determined. "If I have to lose one of my pups to the Low-Landers, then you can bloody well bet I'm going to be there to say goodbye."

                Francis glanced sideways, debating. Al could see that he didn't want to allow it, but compassion outweighed propriety. "Yes, of course," he said. Gently, he lifted his Omega-mate's head and kissed him, silencing Arthur's gasps and sobs for a short duration. Their lips unlocked with a soft _smack_. "I love you, Arthur. And I love our pups," Francis said in English (a sentiment he felt was more beautiful in French, but which he issued in English to comfort his mate). "I promised you once that I would protect you, all of you, and I will. That means putting on a brave face for Alfred and Mathieu's benefit," he added, implying Arthur's present distress. "The pups can't see you breaking down, Arthur. It'll only scare them. You've got to stop," he said, wiping Arthur's cheeks. "If you're going to come with us, then you _have_ to be strong for them, okay?"

                "Yes, you're right," Arthur agreed. He swallowed; gasped. "I will be. Tomorrow," he promised.

                And then dissolved into tears.


	11. Lost Boys – Chapter Two

**THE CHANNEL**

**TWO DAYS LATER**

Al stood at the bow, a salty north-eastern breeze blowing back his wheat-blonde cowlick, tugging at his feathery hair. The slim ship sliced through the waves like a knife, its sail full of a powerful wind that propelled it across the Channel. Al liked the feel of the sun beating down on his face. He reveled in the heat of late-August, which the rest of his family—sans Francis—was less fond of. (They burned too easily.) Fortunately for them, hot, sunny days on the isles were few and far between, which is why Al treasured the sunrays on his skin, reflected off the grey water.

                Matt would have been there beside him, but he had gone expectedly into Heat a day before and was locked in the room below-deck, which Francis and Scott took turns guarding. Neither of them trusted the crew's blatant interest in the Omega's enticing scent. Arthur had initially protested Scott being so close, as well. Matt was a young and fertile, unclaimed Omega whose soft cries called-out for an Alpha. Francis was immune to it. He was pair-bonded _and_ Matt's Alpha-father. Nothing mattered more to him than his precious pups and their safety. Scott insisted that he, too, could resist nature and protect Matt ("Matt is my own _blood_ , Art! Don't insult me!"), but Arthur worried about his impulsive Alpha-brother, and secretly Al did, too.

                Two years ago, Al had witnessed something that had, then, made him question the family head's self-control. Scott was home alone with the two thirteen-year-olds when Matt had unexpectedly gone into Heat. It was sooner than it should have been, and it was still a new experience for the family; Matt had only had two Heats before then. Scott had tried to take care of his nephew. He had scooped Matt into his arms, intending to take him to the storehouse like he used to do for Arthur, and Al—curious and concerned—had followed. Scott's pace had started out fast, but halfway there he slowed to a walk, then stopped. He stood in the field, holding Matt as the Omega-pup whined and wriggled in the Alpha's arms. Instinctively, he pressed himself closer to Scott, pawing at the Alpha insistently, and Al was shocked to see that his uncle was shaking. The look in Scott's eyes worried Al—his pupils were dilated, swallowing the green—but not as much as Scott's intent when he bowed his head to Matt's neck and tasted the Omega-pup's skin.

                " _Hey_!" Al had shouted, afraid of what he saw. "Scottie, stop it!" Bravely, he kicked Scott's shin. Scott growled in reflex and bared his teeth at the blue-eyed Omega-pup, who cowered in fear. But Al repeated: "Uncle Scottie, please stop it! Let go of Mattie!"

                His high-pitched plea seemed to reach Scott. Suddenly, the Alpha gasped and almost dropped Matt. "Fuck!" he cursed, looking scared for the first time in Al's life. The Omega-pup soon found his twin dropped indelicately into his arms as Scott backed away. "Lock Matt in the storehouse, Al!" he ordered, covering his nose and mouth. Then he turned around and ran. Al heard his frustrated voice shouting: "FUCK!" in the distance. Baffled, Al tugged Matt onto his back and carried him quickly to the storehouse, afraid to risk the attention of other Alphas.

                That had been the first time Al had ever seen an Alpha react to an Omega; it was surprising. It stirred mixed feelings within him: fear, but also intrigue. Alphas were supposed to mate Omegas, after all; it was natural. But Al had never seen an _Alpha_ look so helpless before, which peaked his curiosity. It was frightening to think that—based on his uncle's reaction— _any_ Alpha could be effected, blood-relative or not, but it also gave Al a feeling of empowerment. _Do I have that power too_? he had wondered. _Could I drive an Alpha wild with lust_?

                When his parents had returned that night, asking after Matt, Al had reported that he had taken Matt into the storehouse alone. He was praised for taking care of his twin ("What a wonderful brother you are, Alfred!"), which he happily accepted, basking in his parents' proud smiles. He never confronted Scott about the incident, and Scott never acknowledged what had almost happened. Even now, two years later, he and Al had an unvoiced agreement to keep it a secret. But the Omega-pup had learnt something important that day, something that he would never forget: Omegas were not as weak as society wanted them to be.

                "Alfred, love?" Arthur's voice called, interrupting Al's thoughts. When he spotted his isolated pup, he joined him at the ship's bow. "It's chilly today," he noted by way of greeting. In defense of the breeze, he crossed his arms. Al grunted in acknowledgement. He could feel his Omega-father's eyes studying his profile, but pretended not to notice. A minute passed; then two. Finally, Arthur said: "Come inside and have supper, love."

                "I'm not hungry—"

                "Alfred, _please_."

                Al was taken aback by the concern in Arthur's tone. Tentatively, he touched Al's shoulder.

                Al swallowed. He _was_ hungry—starving. In fact, the up-and-down bobbing of the ship was making him feel dizzy. He had been nursing a terrible headache since yesterday and was now afraid that he would get sick. _At least I can blame it on seasickness_ , he thought. In preparation for the journey, Al had cut back on his food intake even more and, as a result, hadn't eaten anything for nearly forty-eight hours. It made him feel weak, which he hated—which he tried to fight—but he was rewarded by his reflection in the looking-glass. His face, at least, looked thinner, even if his midsection did not. _All I have to do is hide the dark circles under my eyes_ , he had thought as he subtly applied a pasty cosmetic, which he had stolen from the pack's apothecary. As long as no one studied him too closely—like Arthur was now—no one would know that he had faked his healthy complexion.

                He attempted a half-hearted smile for Arthur's benefit, willing his stomach not to growl. "Dad," he insisted, "I'm fine."

                Arthur, however, was unconvinced.

                "No," he said sternly, "you're not. Sweetheart," he forced an amiable smile, "you haven't eaten anything for nearly two days. Don't think I haven't noticed. I'm worried about you, Alfred."

                In example, he reached for Al's face, but Al knocked his hand aside in annoyance.

                "I'm fine, really," he repeated. "I'm just not... I'm just a little nervous, that's all," he lied.

                As expected, Arthur's reaction was instantaneous. It was no secret that he was still angry with Scott, and, to a lesser extent, Francis, and he blamed them for any distress the Omega-twins had felt within the last forty-eight hours. Since learning of their intent for Al and Matt, Arthur had been visibly stressed, concerned about his young pups and overly attentive to each of their needs. Perhaps it was unfair, but Al found his Omega-father's concern desirable. Even if it was for selfish reasons, he still loved the attention. It was so easy to exploit Arthur's compassion, which is what he did now. All he had to do was cast a sheepish glance at Arthur and Arthur ate Al's lie without question, too focused on blaming the Alphas to notice Al's subtle manipulation.

                "Oh, love, I'm so sorry," he said, suspicion melting into sympathy.

                Al faked a brave-face. "It's okay," he said softly, smiling in a martyr-like fashion, which was equal parts fear and courage.

                "Oh, Alfred. Come here." Compassionately, Arthur drew Al into a one-armed hug. Al instantly felt guilty for deceiving his Omega-father, who seemed to feel his pups' trepidation as if it were his own, but again the blue-eyed Omega felt equally grateful for the physical affection. He so rarely got to cuddle with anyone, since they considered him less in need of it than Matt. Al rested his cheek on Arthur's shoulder, feeling peaceful (forgetting his hunger, for once) as Arthur's weight rested gently atop his head. "It's going to be okay, love," he said, holding his pup. "I won't let anything bad happen to you, I promise."

                Al closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, comforted by his Omega-father's mild scent. "Okay," he said.

                "Do you know," said Arthur, after a minute. Absently, he rubbed his thumb back-and-forth over Al's forearm. "I was scared half-crazy the day you and Matthew were born. I felt so lost, so weak. I was all alone and, then, I thought that I would always be alone. It was terrifying." He spoke slowly, as if reliving the faraway experience with every word. Yet despite Arthur's bleak confession, his tone was nostalgic. It was an odd mix, in Al's thinking. Eventually, the older Omega continued. "But that's not going to be you," he said seriously. "I won't let that happen to you, Alfred. I won't let you or Matthew feel lost and alone. It's such a terrible feeling. And Omegas..." He paused, reconsidered, and then said the words anyway: "Omegas are not meant to be alone."

                (Lone Alphas— _Lone Wolves_ , they were called—were not that uncommon, but Omegas were never left alone. It was simple evolution: social evolution, perhaps. It was widely believed that Omegas could not survive alone.)

                "I know," Al repeated. He felt conflicted, though he couldn't tell why.

                "But you won't be alone," Arthur amended, so as not to frighten his pup. He sounded chipper. "You have me and your Papa and Scott. And maybe soon an Alpha-mate."

                Al removed himself from his Omega-father's grasp, sighing deeply. "He's going to choose Matt, Dad. Just like everyone else. Honestly, I don't even know why I'm here."

                "Alfred—"

                "Never-mind," Al interrupted. He forced a smile and a change-of-topic. "I'm feeling better. Let's go eat."

* * *

**THE LOW COUNTRIES**

Hold on, pup." Scott grabbed the back of Al's coat, preventing him from leaping to shore.

                The ship was tethered to a weathered quay, bobbing on the waves that congealed in the inlet. The wind blew fiercely here, unhindered by cliffs or forests. Al spied the long, flat landscape through a curtain of cold rainfall. It was very different from the rocky highlands and rolling hills of the Isles. The sinking land here looked ready to surrender to the North Sea with little provocation. Al had heard a Low-Lander sailor call it an _alluvial plain_ , which Al translated to _swamp_. "The village is located on the high-ground, up over there," said the sailor, pointing. _That's the_ high-ground, _seriously_? Skeptically, Al spied the big buildings set upon a shallow rise. Granted, the dwellings were grander than the average Islander's home, but they sat on a hilltop barely above sea-level. As he and his family (sans Francis and Matt) were escorted from the ship—Al was offered a hand, which he ignored—he wondered how the Low-Landers managed to fend off the sea's constant barrage.

                "Do not be afraid," said the sailor. He spoke English with a thick accent, like every Low-Lander Al had met. "Do you see those deep stone trenches? Those are the canals. We use them to guide the waters by means of dams and floodgates, diverting the waters away from the village. We use them also for irrigation. The North Sea," he gestured in example, "flows into the canals and meets with the Rhine further inland, which carries the waters into the West where several smaller rivers connect. Do not worry, Alfred Kirkland. The walls are strong. It can rain and rain, but the village is perfectly safe."

                Al frowned. "I'm not afraid—"

                He stopped when he felt Scott's hand on his shoulder, squeezing discretely. He glanced from Scott's hooded, yet stern expression to Arthur, who offered a half-smile in appeasement.

                _Please behave_ , _Alfred_ , said the Omega's green eyes.

                Just then, a party of five Low-Lander Alphas arrived to receive them. The tallest ( _and the most attractive_ , Al thought) was undeniably the Clan Leader's son.

                "Welcome to the Low Countries," he said in practised English. His accent was thick and his voice was deep. It seemed to rumble within his broad chest. It sent a shiver down Al's spine; he liked deep voices. "My name is Lars van den Berg, son and heir of the Clan Leader. My Vader sent me ahead to meet you," he said, inclining his head to Scott. His attendants did likewise. "Please," he gestured to the _high-ground_ , "allow me to escort you inside."

                Suddenly, Al found himself presented with Lars' big hand. The Low-Lander kept his head slightly bowed so as not to intimidate the young Omega.

                "Thank-you," said Scott, letting the Alphas escort his Omega family-members up a cobbled path. They held umbrellas to protect their Omega guests from the rain (disregarding the fact that they were already soaked, coats or not. _This is a very wet place_ , Al thought—and this coming from an _Islander_!). They all walked quickly in a desire to escape the rainfall. Al found his hand folded into the inviting warmth of Lars' arm, who pulled him along. Though he wouldn't admit it, Al was surprised to find himself struggling to keep-pace with Lars' long-legged strides. The Low-Lander was so _very_ tall! ( _Taller than me_ , Al smiled, pleased.) When they reached the Great House, the Alpha guards opened the doors to a friendly welcome. The Clan Leader strode forward and clasped hands with Scott, each Alpha inclining his head in acknowledgement of the other's status. He re-introduced his Alpha-son and heir, Lars. Then it was Scott's turn:

                "May I present my brother, Arthur," he said, gesturing fleetingly to Arthur. The Low-Lander Alphas bowed their heads in respect, to which Arthur nodded. "And this is his Omega-son, my nephew, Alfred." Scott lingered on Al's introduction, letting the Low-Landers take a good, long look at him.

                As practised, Al bowed his head slowly, keeping his gaze plastered to the flagstone floor until told otherwise. It was a long time before anyone did. The longer it took, the hotter Al's face grew as the Alphas appraised him. Despite his love of attention, he realized very quickly that he did _not_ like being the centre-of-attention when his audience was gauging his worth. _They're trying to decide if I'm worth the price of a trade contract_ , he knew. Suddenly, he wished that he had been given time to freshen-up, or at least towel-off before meeting his potential betrothed. He was soaked and shivering, which weren't the best conditions for showing-off his features. (The rain had washed the cosmetic off of his face, revealing the dark half-circles beneath his eyes.)

                Finally, the Clan Leader said: "Such a lovely Omega! So very, uh... tall. Lars."

                Lars stepped forward and took Al's hand in a proper greeting. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," he said. Al straightened and squeezed Lars' proffered hand. The Low-Lander flinched at the pressure, but quickly turned it into an awkward chuckle in recovery. "That's quite a strong grip you have, Alfred," he said.

                "Oh, sorry," Al mumbled in apology.

                As Al retreated to his Omega-father's side, Scott made Francis' apologies. "He begs your forgiveness, but his Omega-son, Matthew, my other nephew, went into Heat on the crossing and Francis elected to stay with him," _for his protection_ , his eyes subtly added. "I hope you understand."

                "Of course! Do not fret, it cannot be helped," said the Clan Leader in accommodation. His tone was friendly, but Al didn't miss the hint in his eyes, which revealed that he was pleased by Matt's condition. It bode well for his son that the Omegas were fertile, and being in Heat was a good indication of that. "We will meet them later. For now, let's eat!" said the Clan Leader. "Lars, you will escort Alfred Kirkland tonight."

                Lars' face was reticent. He said: "Yes, Vader."

* * *

Do you think he likes me?" Al asked.

                The Islanders had been led to a guesthouse—a longhouse with an arched ceiling—which was partitioned into three separate rooms for privacy: Scott in one; Francis and Arthur in another; and Al and Matt in another. The twins would share a room until one of them was mated to Lars. Al didn't mind, though; he had been sharing a room with his brother his whole life. Just then, he was standing front of a looking-glass, scrutinizing his refreshed image. It was five minutes before supper; five minutes before Lars would arrive to escort Al back to the main house. Feeling nervous, he finger-combed his wheat-blonde fringe, wishing that he could reapply the cosmetic to his face. But he couldn't do it in Arthur's presence. Arthur sat opposite him on the bed, trying and failing to smooth the wrinkles from his shirt. Unlike his brother and mate, he had only had forty-eight hours to prepare for the journey to the Mainland, and, too focused on his pups' needs, Arthur had neglected his own wardrobe. He had never been a particularly fashionable Omega, but the rich styles sported by the Low-Landers made him look even less so.

                "Don't be impatient, Alfred," Arthur scolded. "It's a bit too soon to tell, I think. The Low-Landers are polite, but they haven't revealed much else. Though," his lips curled into a sneaking grin, "that Lars van den Berg _is_ bloody attractive, don't you think?"

                Al avoided his Omega-father's teasing gaze and feigned nonchalance. "Yeah, I guess so." _If you like Alphas who are tall and handsome_.

                At precisely eight o'clock, Lars knocked on Al's door. He, too, had taken the opportunity to re-dress and now stood tall and handsome in imported clothes of fine quality. The embroidery complimented his sage-green eyes quite well. Al let the Low-Lander guide him back to the Great House, which had been transformed into a dining-hall by the appearance of three long, clothed tables. Al sat at the head table, which stood on a dais. He sat between Scott and Lars on a bench and was served the best cuts of everything, after Scott, of course. Lars was an affable if not talkative supper companion. However, the third course was being served before Al managed to finally draw a genuine smile out of him. Al was not used to dining in as grand a setting as this, and his mistakes produced a chuckle from Lars. "Just follow my lead," he whispered. His laidback demeanour eased Al's nerves, and soon Al relaxed. He enjoyed the setting, the food (he ate just enough to be polite), and the entertainment, but it was Lars who captivated the young Omega. The Alpha was _bloody attractive_ , after all. And he seemed not to be judging Al as openly as the other Low-Landers. Al wanted to engage Lars in an intelligent or witty conversation, but it soon became apparent that neither of them cared much for small-talk, nor did either one know much about the topics society deemed appropriate for well-bred Omegas. Thus, in experiment, Al shifted the conversation to what he _did_ know. He talked about Alpha sports, like fishing and hunting, which Lars seemed much more receptive to. Keenly, he asked:

                "Do you hunt, Alfred?"

                "Yes, I do. I've been hunting since I was a pup," Al bragged. "My Papa and uncles taught me."

                "I've never met an Omega who hunts," said Lars, studying Al in intrigue.

                "Well," Al cocked his head, letting the firelight dance in his bright blue eyes, letting it colour his feathery hair a gleaming gold, "now you have."

                After that, the conversation flowed easily and eventually Al had Lars wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. He told several stories, which never failed to elicit a laugh or a gasp back home. His Alpha friends had always yielded to Al's storytelling skills when recalling the details of a hunt. Al had a talent for embellishment, and he was glad to see that it was not wasted on Lars. The Alpha smiled and regaled Al with many stories in reply, some funny, others daring feats of exceptional skill. If Lars was trying to impress Al, it was working. By midnight, Al was completely at-ease with the foreigner. Alphas, it seemed, were the same in every territory. You just had to know how to talk to them. Matt had always favoured flattery when speaking to Alphas; a true Omega trick. He was very good at it. He had always found it easier to focus on the talents of others rather than on himself, and Alphas—most Alphas—were very self-involved. Al, however, was the opposite. He was too competitive to flatter someone undeserving of it and way too honest to issue an outright lie. Al was straightforward, as was his sense of humour.

                "You've got a very _Alpha_ sense of humour," Lars said to him. Al took it as a compliment (though, later—with an exasperated sigh—Arthur told him that he shouldn't have).

                At half-past midnight, Lars offered to walk Al back to his bedchamber and Al accepted. This time, they didn't touch. Al was too busy gesturing as he talked. Once he whipped his arm out in example and accidentally smacked Lars in the face. "Oh, sorry!" he gasped. Privately he berated himself— _stupid_ , _stupid_ , _stupid_ —as Lars rubbed his reddening cheek. Fortunately, the Alpha laughed it off.

                "I don't think you know your own strength," he smiled. "I've never met an Omega like you before, Alfred."

                At the bedchamber's door, Al stopped. He waited like a good Omega to be dismissed.

                "There's a hunt tomorrow at dawn," Lars said, extending an invitation. "You would be very welcome to join us. In fact, I hope you do. I want to see for myself whether any of that big talk is true," he teased.

                Al's heart leapt joyfully. "Oh, yes!" he replied, eager to showcase his skills. "I'd love to! I can't wait! You won't be disappointed," he promised.

                Lars nodded. "Goodnight, Alfred Kirkland."

* * *

Mathieu, _chéri_ , how are you feeling?"

                Francis' soothing voice washed over Matt, who was lying curled-up in a pile of bedding below-deck. It wasn't a good nest and he felt unsettled in it—excruciating Heat notwithstanding. Matt disliked foreign spaces. " _Nn—Papa_ ," he whispered softly. He pressed his cheek to a pillow, inhaling the Alpha's heady scent. Francis was a very strong and healthy Alpha, and his musky scent reflected that. The fog clung to Matt's brain, making him feel half-asleep; maybe he _was_ half-asleep. He found it hard to differentiate between reality and dreams when he was in Heat, something that his Omega-father assured him was _perfectly normal_. As Francis neared the bed, Matt felt instinctively drawn toward the heat of his body. _Is_ this _perfectly normal_? Matt wondered, pawing insistently at Francis' shirt. His slender fingers were sweaty and trembling; messy Heat-slick coated the bed of his nails. Francis knelt down and pet Matt's curls in a soothing way, whispering reassurances. Matt fought the urge to whine, to plead, to beg for more of his sire's physical touch. He tried to ignore the knot of desire budding in his stomach, making him feel both aroused and revolted. _Is it normal to want your own blood-relatives_? Matt squeezed his eyes tightly shut, but tears slipped out, rolling over his cheeks. _I hate this_! he thought, feeling weak, helpless to stop himself. _I hate being in Heat_! _It makes me want_ —

                " _P-Papa_..."

                "Hush-hush, Mathieu. It's okay. You're safe, _chéri_. Papa is here to protect you."

                _I'm so pathetic_ , Matt thought, burying his face against Francis' neck. He clung to his Alpha-father, desperate. "I-I—I'm s-so s-sorry, Papa," he gasped. "I-I—I'm s-sorry I-I—"

                "No, sweetheart," Francis cooed. "There's nothing to apologize for, it's nature."

                "I-I-I—" Matt took a deep breath. "I'm sorry for ruining Uncle Scottie's plan. It's a bad first-impression. This, _me_ —I'm an inconvenience, aren't I?"

                "No, of course not," Francis denied. He held Matt, rocking him gently. "Mathieu, _chéri_ , you've done nothing wrong. You've done nothing but proven your worth to the Low-Landers. You've made a perfect first-impression, _mon cher_. Being susceptible to Heats is a telling sign of an Omega's fertility. It's a very _desirable_ condition."

                "Maybe from y-y-your p-p-perspective," Matt argued. "But when everyone knows that you—that y-y-you're— _Ah hah_! _Nn—_!" he gasped. "It's s-s-so embarrassing!"

                Francis chuckled benignly. Matt felt it reverberate in his throat.

                _Don't laugh at me_! he thought, feeling suddenly angry. _You have no idea what this feels like_! _No Alpha ever will_ , _all they do is reap the benefits_!

                That irrational anger manifested itself in a most undesirable, physical way. Helplessly, Matt clutched Francis and cried in frustration as a Heat-wave overwhelmed him, submerging all logic. " _O-oh_!" He whined and wriggled. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips to Francis' neck. " _Papa_ , _please_ ~"

                Francis' chest heaved in a sigh. Forcibly, he pried Matt's fingers off of himself and stood. "It's okay, _chéri_ ," he said in retreat. "It's all going to be okay, I promise. Just rest."

                _I don't want rest_! _I want you_! _I want an Alpha_! _Any Alpha_! _Please_ , _just make it stop_ —!

                " _Attendez_ —! _Nn_ , _non—s'il vous plaît_!" Matt begged, crying. " _Come back_! _Papa_ , _please don't leave me_ ~"

                " _Bonne nuit_ , _Mathieu_."

                The door closed and the deadbolt locked, leaving Matt alone in the silent darkness.

                Dejected, he buried his face in a pillow and screamed.

* * *

**THE NEXT DAY**

Al was jittery with excitement. He had slept well—despite a _very_ hard mattress—and woken early, and was bathed and dressed by the time his relatives stirred. Arthur was surprised to find Al awake and bright-eyed by the breakfast hour.

                Like Francis, Al valued sleep and slept deeply, often needing someone to wake him in the mornings; though, Francis was worse. He religiously overslept and frustrated Arthur, who was responsible for waking him up. ("Francis, love, it's time to get up. Francis—? _Gah_! Bloody-hell! Francis, get off of me! Wake up you bloody wine-wanker—!")

                Al walked uphill to the Great House with Arthur and Scott, eager for the hunt. Arthur left them at the doors, wishing Al luck and conveying a parent's concern:

                " _Please_ be careful, Alfred." Hunting in familiar territory was dangerous enough, but the Low Countries were completely unknown to Al. "This is no time to be showing-off, do you understand? Alfred—? Scott!" he urged, eyeing his Alpha-brother insistently. "Watch him, please! Don't let him out of your sight!"

                Scott dismissed Arthur's concern. "Don't fuss, Art. Al's a good hunter, he learnt from the best. He'll be fine." Proudly, he ruffled Al's blonde hair.

                Al smiled and fixed it without trying to look like he was fixing it.

                They entered the Great House and were immersed in a throng of ready Alphas. Lars spotted Al and smiled at him in greeting. Al cocked his chin in reply. He was given a choice of tool. He selected a wicked-looking axe and let the sheathed head rest casually on his shoulder, and then took his place beside Scott in the procession. Initially, the Low-Lander Alphas were confused by the Omega's presence. Several of them looked concerned for his well-being, feeling responsible for keeping him safe, perhaps. But their collective attitude changed the instant the hunt began. Al took off like an arrow, easily keeping-pace with Scott as the two raced over the wetlands, showcasing their skills. The rain had not stopped, but as a born-and-bred Islander Al was hardly a stranger to hunting in poor weather conditions. He only slipped once, but caught his balance before anyone could offer help. Cheerfully, he raced ahead, clutching the axe like he was born to it. By midmorning, Al succeeded in catching Lars, who was leading the pack. The Alpha's face revealed pleasant surprise when he saw Al. His sage-coloured eyes issued a challenge, which Al arrogantly accepted, and soon they were racing each other through the wet fields and sparse forests in search of prey. At high-noon, they stopped for dinner. Al wanted to refuse, but he was famished and feeling dizzy; he couldn't afford to faint. He picked at his meal and talked more than he ate, encouraging a competitive spirit amongst his fellows. The Alphas quickly realized that they need not guard their tongues with Al, who fenced vile-mouthed slander just as well as they did. He engaged the Alphas in conversation, swapping hunting tales and bawdy jokes, and, like Lars the previous night, the young Omega soon had them all howling in laughter.

                "I like this one!" said a grisly Low-Lander, clapping Al's shoulder in comradeship. He eyed Lars indiscreetly, which made the whole party laugh.

                "Are all Island Omegas like you, Alfred?"

                "Of course not!" said Scott. "Alfred is one-of-a-kind." And he, too, eyed Lars suggestively.

                When the hunt resumed at half-one, Lars asked Al to be his hunting-partner. It gave Al the chance to exhibit his talents in tracking.

                "I'm impressed, Alfred. Omegas don't have the sense of smell that Alphas do, but you don't seem to need it. You're a very practiced hunter," Lars praised.

                Al was pleased to accept the compliment, but despite the Alpha's enjoyment, there was something lacking in Lars' tone and gaze. Al was afraid that he had seen that look too many times before on the faces of his Alpha friends, who had simply laughed when he asked them: "Why not me? I _am_ an Omega."

                _You're our friend_ , _Al._

Friend. The bite of self-doubt hit Al, but he shook it off and focused on the hunt.

                By sunset, the wagons were full of the hunt's spoils. It was a great success, and Al was proud to claim a large portion of the kills.

                (In the clans, a hunting party worked as a team—hence, hunting-partners—and in the Low Countries every position in the procession was equally valued; every hunter's job was considered equally important. As Lars' partner, Al had taken the role of spotter, whose job it was to find and chase the prey into a place it couldn't escape from. It was the hardest job for an Omega because of their lacking sense of smell, but Al's sharp ears compensated. As a result, he had spotted and chased more prey than anyone else, which rewarded him a large cut of the spoils.)

                That night, the banquet hall was filled with the succulent scent of roasting meat as large-game rolled on spits in the Great House. Al received praise from the Clan Leader, who said: "What a curious Omega you are, Alfred! You're just full of surprises, aren't you? Lars, you will escort Alfred Kirkland tonight."

                Lars nodded amicably. "Yes, Vader."

                Like the previous night, Al sat beside Lars for the duration of supper, though this time the conversation was more directed. Everyone wanted to talk about the hunt: Alphas shared and compared stories, while Omegas feigned polite interest and issued praise. The whole hall was loud and lively. Music played in celebration until the small hours of morning, and Al was invited to dance more times that night then he had ever been asked before. He declined many offers before Scott forced him to his feet.

                "If _I_ have to dance"—as was customary of visiting envoys—"than you sure as hell have to, pup," he said.

                "We can't all three of us refuse to dance," whispered Arthur, who was even less fond of dancing than Al and Scott. "If only Francis and Matthew were here." (Francis was a good dancer, and Matt was asked often enough to be very practised.)

                To this, Scott and Al could only agree.

                Al followed his partner's footsteps, but he ended up apologizing and laughing more than not. It was his good-luck that the Alphas found Al's clumsiness charming rather than insulting.

                Drunkenly, the Clan Leader boomed: "Lars! Dance with Alfred Kirkland!"

                Lars said: "Yes, Vader," and extended his hand to Al.

                Al liked the feel of Lars' big, strong body under his hands as the Alpha led him through the steps of a foreign dance (though neither of them was a particularly gifted dancer). It wasn't complex, but Al was happy to let Lars take the lead. _I don't mind being led_ _if it's by him_ , he thought giddily. Instinctively, he let himself lean in toward the Alpha. Maybe it was the hunt's high, or the excessive beer he had drank (emphasis on that second one), but in that moment Al wanted Lars' attention more than he had ever wanted another Alpha's; even more than Alec Frasier's. By the end of the night, Al found himself hoping that Lars would kiss him. He _thought_ he was being discrete about it as he eyed the Alpha's soft-looking lips, but Scott elbowed him in the ribs.

                " _Down_ , _pup_ ," he whispered, chuckling. Al's cheeks heated (though, that could have also been the beer).

                "Can I walk you back to your bedchamber?" Lars asked Al.

                Al nodded and eagerly took the Alpha's arm. Lars, too, had had a lot to drink, but he kept his balance as they left the Great House.

                "It's raining," Al noted, tipping his head. He smiled as raindrops pelted his face, sliding over his rosy cheeks.

                They walked arm-in-arm down a cobbled path, dodging puddles, to the guesthouse. At the door to Al's room, they stopped. Lars looked down at Al, misty-eyed. He said:

                "I had a lot of fun with you today, Alfred."

                Al's heartbeat skipped in anticipation. "I, uh... yeah, me too. With you." He lifted his chin and met Lars' gaze, letting his eyes linger on the Alpha's lips. _Kiss me_. _Please kiss me._

                "Alfred."

                Al swallowed. "Yes—?"

                Lars brushed back Al's fringe and kissed his forehead. "Goodnight."

* * *

**TWO DAYS LATER**

Matt climbed out of the washtub and toweled off. It felt good to be clean. He hated the feel of his skin when it was wet with sweat and Heat-slick. He would never understand why Alphas found it so desirable. _What's so enticing about an Omega covered in his own_ —

                "Mathieu," Francis called, "are you ready, _chéri_?"

                As soon as his Heat had ended, Matt had asked for a bath. "Hot. Make it steaming hot," he requested. He had stepped into the wood washtub and scrubbed his pale skin until it was shiny red, determined to wash off the lingering Heat-scent. Finally, when the water was cool, he got out. He combed his curls and dressed in the clothes that Francis had chosen for him. Then he stood obediently while his Alpha-father inspected him. Francis had a keen eye for art. He looked Matt up-and-down, then pulled the Omega's hair back into a short ponytail and tied it with a ribbon.

                "That's better," he said, satisfied. He smiled at his pup. "Now everyone can see your pretty face, _chéri_.

                "It's important that we"— _you_ —"make a good impression on the Low-Landers, Mathieu," Francis continued, as he and Matt left the ship. One of the sailors on-board wolf-howled in Matt's direction, but stopped instantly when Francis sent him a scathing glare. They picked their way up the shallow incline to the hilltop where the Low-Landers' village perched, each holding an umbrella to protect himself from the constant rainfall. As they approached the high-roofed Great House, Francis leant toward Matt. "Let me do the talking," he said, as if Matt had ever _considered_ the opposite.

                (Omegas should be seen and not heard. Omegas should only speak to Alphas when spoken to. A good Omega should never open his mouth needlessly. Those were the three golden rules of social engagement, which every well-bred Omega-pup was taught since childhood. Al was the obvious exception.)

                The Clan Leader received the Islanders in the main hall, which was empty except for a skinny musician and a few attendants. A hunt was in progress, the second in three days.  The last had been a great success, they were told. As the guards ushered the Islanders inside, the Clan Leader stood to receive them. Before Francis could speak, however, the old Low-Lander gasped in pleasant surprise.

                "My word! What a beautiful Omega!"

                Matt smiled and bowed his head in polite acceptance.

                "You must be Francis Kirkland," said the Clan Leader, extending his hand to Francis.

                Francis didn't deny the mistake of his surname (which was technically Bonnefoi-Kirkland, since he had been adopted by the Kirkland family). He just smiled amiably, and said: "Yes, I am. Thank-you for your hospitality."

                The Clan Leader frowned. "Your accent... is it an Island dialect? It sounds very familiar."

                In his peripheral vision, Matt saw Francis tense. "It is a hybrid, yes," he replied in painstaking English, trying his best to mimic the Islanders' pronunciation as closely as possible to mask his true voice.

                _The French clans_ —Francis' birthplace— _are part of the Southern Empire now_ , Matt knew. They had been for the past fifteen years. _The Southern Empire is powerful_ _and_ _dangerous. It has a reputation for conquest. If the Low-Landers discover Papa's heritage_ , _even though he left before the annexation of his clan to the Southern Empire_ , _they might refuse to negotiate_ _with him. With us._ _They might not trust us._

                "May I present my son?" Francis said, quickly changing the subject. "This is Mathieu—" He cleared his throat and tried again, very slowly: "Ma _tthew_."

                Before the Clan Leader could further interrogate Francis', Matt deliberately stepped forward and bowed low, drawing the Alpha's attention.

                "Matthew, yes, of course. Allistor has already named you in introduction, my dear. You are most welcome to the Low Countries." He smiled. Then an exhale of happy disbelief escaped him and he chuckled. "Gods! You are such a pretty little thing." Gently, he touched Matt's chin with a big, callused finger and lifted his head. Matt kept his eyes humbly downcast as the Alpha studied his pale face. "Lovely," he repeated, pleased. "Just lovely. I cannot wait for you to meet my son, my Lars," he said, taking Matt's arm in escort. Francis walked on Matt's other side, speaking as little as possible. Matt, too, kept quiet as the Clan Leader talked. He didn't seem to care if the Islanders replied or not. He was someone who liked the sound of his own loud voice, Matt decided. The Clan Leader led them into a comfortable anteroom to wait for the hunt's return, all the while praising Lars and spoiling Matt, paying the Omega compliments and ordering treats that he insisted Matt eat. In fact, his indulgence was typical of a doting father-in-law who had no Omega-pups of his own.

                The rowdy hunting party returned at sunset.

                Matt heard the Alphas long before he saw them. Heavy, careless footsteps advanced like a great host. Their leather boots made sucking sounds and raindrops clanged off metal weapons. The doors slammed open as the party spilled into the hall. Their loud, deep, growling voices echoed in the rafters, filling the large room. They all laughed and yelled and howled in celebration. Their big, masculine bodies smelled like sweat and adrenaline, caked with the damp-earth scent of mud and the warm, salty scent of wild blood.

                The Clan Leader stood. "The hunt has returned!" he said needlessly. "Come, Matthew. Come meet my Lars."

                Matt swallowed a whine of protest as he was pulled to his feet. He cast a helpless look at Francis, who smiled in encouragement; though, Matt could see apprehension in his Alpha-father's blue eyes. The anteroom door opened, revealing the dozens of Alphas, old and young, amassing in the Great House's hall. They were all big and strong and filthy and feeling aggressive with the aftermath of adrenaline. Matt watched an Alpha tackle his hunting-partner in a good-humoured attack, startling a pair of nearby Omegas. The din of their howls was deafening. Instinctively, Matt stepped back.

                The Clan Leader looked puzzled. "Do not be afraid, my dear," he said, releasing Matt.

                Matt feigned apology. Though, it was clear by the Alpha's smile that he approved of Matt's unease. Meekness was a desirable quality in Omegas. It promised obedience.

                But the longer Matt stood on the dais, awaiting his introduction, the more he wanted to disobey and bolt. He had never met this many strangers all at once before; foreigners, too. And one of them—one of those big, wild, bloody bodies—would be his future mate. He could feel himself involuntarily starting to shake. _No_ , _don't panic_. _Calm down_. The _very_ last thing he wanted was to have a panic-attack in front of these strangers. Gods forbid! What if he fainted? He knew he needed to make a good impression. He had been _told_ to make a good impression, but he was scared. He wanted his Papa, or his Dad. He wanted Al to shield him. He did _not_ want any of those Alphas to touch him.

                Slowly, the hall quieted as the Alphas noticed the dais' three occupants, and Matt found himself unwittingly the centre-of-attention. Again.

* * *

Al was bantering back-and-forth with Lars, grinning and laughing, when the hall's din suddenly softened. He wiped his wet, muddy cheeks with the back of his hand as he looked around, searching for the source of intrigue. He found it the instant his eyes landed on the dais, on Matt. _Mattie_! Al's first thought was for his twin's safety. Matt looked small and timid standing beside the big Clan Leader. An outsider might have accepted Matt's coy smile at face-value, but Al knew that frozen smile was false. _He's scared_ , he thought in sympathy. _It's okay_ , _Mattie. It's not a bad place_. _They're not bad people_. In fact, Al was rather starting to like the Low-Landers. In proof, he turned to Lars—

                —but Lars was no longer beside him.

                Al's stomach suddenly dropped as he watched Lars advance to the dais like a sleepwalker, drawn to Matt like a moth to a flame. Al stood there, sopping-wet and filthy, feeling empty as the adrenalin left him, and watched as the handsome Alpha stopped in front of Matt and inclined his head. Matt flushed prettily, like a fairytale maiden. Al knew that it was Matt's anxiety, not bashfulness, but that's not what the Low-Landers would see. It's not what Lars saw. The whole hall was silent, everyone entranced by the lovely new-arrival. Al listened absently as the Clan Leader introduced Matt, specifically to Lars. Then he watched Lars gently take Matt's pale, trembling hand and press a kiss to the back of it. It was slow and deliberate and when Lars lifted his head, smiling in infatuation, Al knew it was over. Scott might as well present the free-trade treaty right then, because the negotiations were as good as completed. Francis' sly grin was a telling sign, pleased by the Low-Lander's enamoured reaction to his beautiful pup.

                Al clenched his fists. He heard Arthur's whispered voice say: "Alfred—?" but Al ignored him.

                His gaze was plastered to Lars, who hadn't let go of Matt's hand. Without waiting for the Clan Leader's order, he said:

                "May I escort you this evening, Matthew Kirkland?" His voice was softer than Al had ever heard it.

                Matt smiled shyly, and said: "Yes."

                It might as well have been a proposal, Al thought. As he scanned the hall from left-to-right, he could see the happy, bright-eyed smiles of the Low-Landers, the hunters, who only moments ago had been fierce. A low hum arose as they whispered to each other, appraising Matt, nodding in approval. Al pursed his lips. It was clear to everyone that Lars van den Berg had made his choice. And it wasn't Al.

                "Alfred," Arthur repeated.

                Al dodged his Omega-father's touch, mumbling: "I'll be right back."

                He retreated from the Great House into the pouring rain, speed-walking past the guards. He stopped a few buildings away beneath an overhang, trying to swallow his feelings as he paced back-and-forth. "It's not Mattie's fault. It's not Mattie's fault," he repeated. His mud-caked fingernails dug into his palms. "Lars chose Matt. It's nothing that I wasn't expecting. Everyone chooses Matt because Matt's the perfect Omega. I should be glad. I'm not surprised. I'm not. Fuck!" he snapped suddenly. "Why am I even here? Why did they bother bringing me?" Then he pressed a hand to his mouth and shook his head. _No_ , _no. Don't get mad. It's not anyone's fault. I'm just not a good Omega. I never have been_ , _it's fine. Lars chose Matt instead of me_ , _that's fine._ _I don't care. I barely even know him._ "It's fine."

                "Is it—?"

                Al whipped around and found Arthur, who had slipped out and followed him. Al hated the sympathy he saw in his Omega-father's green eyes. It made him feel unjustifiably angry, wanting to hit something; some _one_. Maybe his brother— _No_. _Not Mattie. It's not his fault_. Al's anger simmered quickly. He tried to force self-control, like a good Omega, but the instant he opened his mouth it crumbled. His voice broke.

                "I just wanted him to like me," he admitted to Arthur. "I just wanted _someone_ to choose me."

                "I know you did, love. And he does like you a lot. You've made a wonderful impression on the Low-Landers, Alfred. You've been invaluable to Scott these past few days."

                Al shook his head. "I tried so hard, Dad. I've spent the last four days trying to be his friend, but Alphas don't mate their friends, do they? All Mattie had to do was stand there, and—" Al snapped his fingers "—love at first sight."

                "That's not love, Alfred. That's lust. Alphas don't fall in love on-sight," Arthur said wisely. "Your Papa didn't mate me because he loved me. He saw me and he wanted me and he took me. That's how Alphas operate. Love has nothing to do with it. They see something they want and they take it. Alphas are fighters; Omegas are not. Not most, anyway." He smiled at his blue-eyed pup. Then his tone changed. He said: "Don't envy your brother, Alfred. This isn't his choice. It's not something that he wants, and, knowing you, it's not something that you would want either. It's not what I wanted for either of you, but," he shrugged helplessly, "we're Omegas. We don't have a choice. There are worse Alphas out there than Lars van den Berg, though. At least I know Matthew will be taken care of. Truthfully, I'm glad Lars chose Matthew and not you," he confessed. "This domestic life"—he gestured to the village—"would just kill you, Alfred. I think you would be perfectly miserable if you had to stay here and be Lars' mate."

                Al sighed deeply. He wanted to deny Arthur's words, but they were true. "You're right." His eyes filled with tears, but they didn't fall. "I know what it is the Low-Landers want and it's not me. That's not who I am."

                "I'm sorry that Lars chose Matthew," Arthur soothed, "but I'm not sorry that I get to take you home, Alfred."

                "I want to go home, Dad."

                Arthur nodded. "We will, love. As soon as the treaty is signed."

                "But Mattie will stay here."

                "Yes. Matthew will stay."

                A moment of silence stretched between them as reality hit. Arthur would lose his pup and Al would lose his twin-brother, his best-friend. Suddenly, he felt selfish. He felt the bite of pending loneliness. He instantly regretted all of the awful, irrational things he had ever thought about Matt. He would apologize on his hands-and-knees if it meant he could reverse time; if they could take Matt home. But Arthur was right (again): There were worse Alphas than Lars.

                Bravely, Al took Arthur's cold hand and squeezed it, lending his Omega-father comfort. "Dad? You're right. I think it's going to be okay." He forced a hopeful smile. "I think Lars will take really good care of Mattie. Matt's exactly what Lars wants. It's why he never would've been happy with me," he realized. "Eventually, he would've resented me. Matt and I are just too different." He lifted his chin proudly. "I won't change myself. Not for anyone."

                "Alfred, love, _that's_ what makes you and Matthew different. It's not your attitude or appearance, it's the way you see yourselves. Someday an Alpha _is_ going to choose you," Arthur promised. "Not with his dick, with his heart." Al snorted. Arthur squeezed his hand, smiling. "And when he does, he's going to be the luckiest Alpha alive."

                "I really want that," Al admitted. A genuine smile tugged at his lips. "I just want someone to love me for me."

                "If you find the right person, he will."

* * *

That night, Matt found himself seated uncomfortably close to Lars, nearly thigh-to-thigh. Matt didn't think the Alpha even realized that he was doing it, leaning so close. It would take so little effort for him to completely envelope Matt if he had wanted to, though he didn't initially strike Matt as someone who was usually so physically affectionate. _Maybe it's me_ , Matt wondered. _Maybe I'm encouraging him in some way_ —? Alphas and Omegas instinctively reacted to the other's pheromones. It was natural and often unintentional (especially depending on where an Omega was in his Heat cycle). In response to Lars' closeness, Matt felt himself leaning sideways toward Scott, who sat on his right. However, the further Matt slid to the right, the further Lars followed him, and soon Matt found himself sandwiched between the two Alphas.

                Matt wished he was sitting next to Al, but Al was seated on the Clan Leader's opposite side with Francis and Arthur. He hadn't spoken to his twin-brother since they had left the Isles and he desperately wanted to. Al had a way of making Matt feel better, regardless of the situation. If nothing else, he had a talent for making Matt laugh. He was often the only person who could. Besides, Al had been living among the Low-Landers for four days; perhaps he could offer advice. Matt kept trying to catch Al's eye, but his brother was always looking elsewhere.

                "Oh, my! You really are a beauty!"

                Matt's eyes snapped back to the Alpha in front of him. He recognized his face, but he had been introduced to so many people since arriving that he had forgotten the Alpha's name. In reply, he smiled meekly, and uttered a soft: "Thank-you." Then he issued a generic compliment in return. Alphas were easily flattered, more so than Omegas. The Alpha strode off, grinning. But not before another had taken his place. Then another. And another.

                "It's a pleasure to meet you, sweetheart. _A pleasure_!"

                "You're very beautiful."

                "Beautiful? Gorgeous! You've got the most gorgeous eyes, my dear."

                "Our Lars is so lucky! I'm jealous! But I'll settle for a dance, darling—?"

                "What a lovely, sweet thing he is!" said a middle-aged Omega to Lars. He pinched Lars' cheek. "Just think of how beautiful your pups will be!"

                Matt felt overwhelmed by the attention. He didn't know who to look at; who to reply to. He didn't know who was joking and who was serious. In a single breath he accepted a compliment, laughed at a joke, feigned intrigue, and declined a dance. Alphas and Omegas alike vied for his attention, each wanting to charm the young Omega who would soon be their beloved heir's Omega-mate. The Alphas served flattery; the Omegas asked (intimate) questions. The sort of personal questions that Matt didn't want to answer. He didn't want to offend anyone, but his replies were becoming less and less. Not that the Low-Landers noticed—or cared. Several Alphas simply stared at him. Obviously they didn't care if he spoke or not. But the constant back-and-forth barrage was making Matt feel increasingly anxious. He was grateful when Lars finally interrupted it:

                "That's enough," he said, shooing them off. "Go on. Don't crowd our guest. Are you okay?" he asked Matt.

                Matt nodded. "They're all very friendly."

                Lars snorted. "Yes, that's a word for it. You're shier than your brother," he noted.

                "Oh, I'm sorry—"

                "It's not an insult, Matthew."

                Matt lifted his eyes to meet Lars' for the first time. The Alpha smiled. It was a nice, genuine smile; it touched his sage-green eyes. Timidly, Matt smiled back.

                It was short-lived, however. Lars took Matt's smile as progress and suddenly stood, offering Matt his hand.

                "Come with me," he said.

                Matt's heart-rate increased. He didn't want to go anywhere with an Alpha alone, but nor could he refuse the invitation without permission. He could feel eyes watching them closely; those of his family, in particular. Helplessly, he cast a quick sideways glance at Scott, who nodded subtly. His green eyes seemed to say: _Go on_ , _Matt. This is why we're here_ , _remember_? _Go with the Low-Lander_. Obediently, Matt took Lars' offered hand and was pulled to his feet. As they left the noisy hall, Matt finally caught Al's eye. The blue-eyed Omega looked momentarily crestfallen, but his lips morphed into an encouraging smile when he noticed Matt looking at him. Then he and Lars left the loud, crowded Great House, exiting the structure through a latticed backdoor. Lars grabbed an umbrella and opened it to cover Matt as they stepped out into the rain—

                —and into a exquisite walled-garden filled with lush tulips.

                " _Oh_ , _wow_!" Matt exhaled in pleasant surprise. Whatever he had been expecting from Lars, it wasn't this. He felt his anxiety ease somewhat as the Alpha escorted him slowly through the rows.

                "My Vader built this garden for my Moeder a year after they were pair-bonded," Lars explained. "She came here from a clan in the West specifically to be my Vader's Omega-mate. Vader says she was very lonely at first. I think she missed her family. She was a lot younger than my Vader, only sixteen-years-old; he was already thirty. He didn't want her to be sad, though, so he had this garden built and filled it with tulips—my Moeder's favourite. It was a place just for her, no Alphas allowed." Lars paused and smiled down at Matt. "I was the first Alpha to be allowed in. After I was born, Moeder would bring me here to her garden and let me play. I took a lot of my lessons here, right there." He nodded to a gazebo with an ornate wooden bench. "It's a safe place," he added, sage-green eyes lingering on Matt. "It's a place that you, uh— _anyone_ ," he corrected, blushing, "can come to, to get away from everything else."

                "What happened to your mother?" Matt asked.

                "She died a few years ago. Sickness took her. It was fast." Lars' voice harboured grief, but it was subtle. Matt almost missed it.

                "I'm sorry," he said softly.

                His fingertips danced along the petals of a perfect blood-red tulip. He didn't realize how mesmerized he was until Lars suddenly plucked the tulip, breaking its long stem, and presented it to him like a suitor.

                "Thank-you," Matt said, accepting it. He pressed the tulip gently to his lips and inhaled, savouring its sweet scent. "It's beautiful."

                " _You're_ beautiful, Matthew."

                "O-oh, thank-you." Matt bowed his head. A second later, he felt Lars' finger brushing back an errant curl that had escaped his ribbon. He flinched at the intimate touch.

                Lars dropped his hand. "Sorry," he said.

                "No, I'm sorry," Matt amended quickly. "I just... I'm just a little nervous," he said, which was not untrue.

                "Don't be," Lars said. His voice was husky. "You can trust me, Matthew. I'm not going to hurt you. Not ever. I promise."

                As Matt looked up into the Low-Lander's handsome face, he felt his fears ease. The truth in the Alpha's eyes hid no lies, proving the truth of his words.

                _No_ , _you won't hurt me_ , Matt agreed.

                Subtly, he studied the Alpha's broad shoulders, his wide chest; his strong, long limbs corded with muscle; his powerful, callused hands. He could feel Lars' body-heat. He could smell the salty musk of his skin, his scent. He was a big and tall and _very_ good-looking Alpha, but Matt hesitated. He believed Lars' words, but the Alpha's healthy, virile body scared him. He knew that Lars wouldn't hurt him intentionally, but he _was_ an Alpha, and—like all Alphas—Matt doubted that he understood the true meaning of that promise. Too many Alphas broke it, fuelled by their instincts to take; to possess. Eventually, every Alpha would hurt his Omega whether he knew it or not. That's what Matt believed.

                _Maybe it's not your fault_ , he allowed. _Maybe it's just how things are supposed to be. But it doesn't change anything._

Aloud, he said: "Thank-you, Lars."

                Oblivious, Lars relaxed. Like before, he took Matt's hand and pressed his lips gently to the Omega's knuckles.

* * *

It was late when Lars left Matt in the guesthouse. They hadn't returned to the hall all night, which had provoked half-a-dozen rumours that Matt would rather not know. He thanked Lars for the escort and then bid the Alpha goodnight. Grateful to be alone for the first time since leaving the Isles, he slipped into the dark bedchamber, only to come face-to-face with Al.

                "Oh, Al, I thought you'd be asleep," he said in greeting.

                "Yeah, it's pretty late, Matt."

                Matt nodded, acknowledging the late-hour as he strode to his designated bed. It was huge compared to his bed at home—Home. Matt swallowed. _That's not home anymore._ He kept his back to Al, feeling intimidated by him. Al's tone reminded Matt of his brother's crestfallen blue eyes, even though Al tried to mask it. (Al was not the best at hiding his feelings.) As Matt undressed, Al leant back against his bed-frame and adopted a casual tone.

                "So," he said, eyeing Matt, "how do you like the Low Countries so far?"

                "It's nice," Matt replied. "It's, uh, very wet."

                "Uh huh, it is. And, uh... Lars? Do you like him? Because he really seems to like you, Matt."

                _Ah_ , _there it is_. Matt recognized Al's resentment at once. Al was trying hard to hide it, but Matt had heard it too often before. And every time it felt like a physical blow. Carefully, he evaded the direct question, and said: "He's nice," as if re-describing the landscape.

                "Yeah, he's a nice Alpha," Al agreed. "He's a real good hunter, you know. He's fast and strong, but he doesn't talk much. I bet you prefer that, don't you, Mattie?" he added, attempting a joke. Matt smiled demurely. "He's okay, I guess. I mean, he's good-looking, but he's not really my type."

                Al's lie was palpable. Matt wanted to say something to reassure Al, to comfort him, but he didn't know what. He was afraid of provoking his twin-brother's temper. (The infamous, irrational Kirkland temper.) Matt's heart went out to Al, like it so often did. He wanted to soothe his brother; to _mother_ him, as Al put it. But he wouldn't insult Al by pitying him.

                _Al doesn't want my pity_. _He certainly wouldn't thank me for it_.

                Silently, Matt crawled into bed. The mattress was _very_ hard, but the pillows and blanket were invitingly soft. Despite that, Matt wished for Al's body beside him. The Omega-twins often slept together at home— _that's not home_ , _not anymore_ —for warmth and comfort. Matt always felt safer with Al beside him, hugging him. Matt may have lived in a family of five Alphas, but it was Al, his Omega-brother, who protected him most, from anything and everything. It was Al whom he talked to and laughed with and shared stories and secrets. It was Al who had been his constant companion, his champion since birth. Matt felt exposed without Al now. It didn't matter that Al's bed was barely ten feet away. It didn't matter, because Al's heart couldn't have been farther.

                _I'm sorry_ , _Al. I really am. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to make it better_ , _I wish I did. I don't want to stay here without you._

                Matt's stomach twisted. He felt ill just thinking of it, of being left alone without Al. He was going to miss his family, his uncles and parents, of course, but the mere thought of losing Al was panic-inducing.

_Please don't be angry with me_ , _Al. You're my favourite person in the whole world. Please don't hate me._

                Al rolled over, facing the opposite wall. Curtly, he said: "Goodnight, Matt."

                Softly, Matt whispered: "Goodnight, Al."

* * *

I don't know how much longer the floodgates will hold."

                Lars was on his way back to the Great House from the guesthouse, having bid Matt goodnight. He felt giddy, a completely foreign feeling. Tomorrow—as soon as possible—he would formally ask for Francis' permission to pair-bond with Matt. He was everything the Low-Lander wanted in an Omega-mate and he didn't want to waste any time. Thus, he was feeling lighthearted as he returned to the Great House, but before he reached the hall he passed by an anteroom and heard voices from within. He stopped. The clan's second-in-command spoke in a hushed tone, yet his concern was palpable. He said:

                "It's been raining for nearly a week. If the water level keeps rising, the floodgates won't hold. They're already weak, too old. Clan Leader, the waters are already dangerously high."

                In a split-second, Lars' elation became fear. Without invitation, he pushed inside. "What's going on?"

                "Oh, Lars. Don't worry, my pup, it's nothing. It's not your concern—"

                "Is the village in danger?" Lars interrupted, glancing between his old, weathered Alpha-father and the bleak-eyed second-in-command. When both Alphas failed to reply, he gestured to the shuddered window, pointing west. "If the floodgates are as weak as you say, then we should evacuate the village; order everyone into the tower-house."

                The tower-house was a large stone structure located on the edge of the forest. It was exactly what it sounded like: A multi-leveled tower with a sturdy base built to withstand a flood and big enough to house the entire village in the event of an emergency. The last time the village had been evacuated to the tower-house, Lars had gone with his Omega-mother. It was a safe place, a place of refuge. And it was what he pointed to now.

                "Evacuate the village," he urged. "Don't wait until it's too late, Vader."

                "Lars, please—"

                "It's the responsibility of the Clan Leader to protect those in his care," Lars argued passionately. "It's our job to keep the clan safe. It's our job to keep our _guests_ safe."

                "No!" the Clan Leader suddenly snapped. It took Lars off-guard; the second-in-command flinched. "Under no circumstances are the Islanders to find out about this, is that clear? If they learn how weak our economy actually is, that all of this"—he tugged at his tunic, freshly dyed and stitched with fake gold thread—"is false, then they'll never sign a free-trade agreement with us. If they find out how susceptible our storehouses are to flooding, they'll take their business elsewhere. They won't risk their profits—or their kin," he added as an afterthought. "I won't risk it. We _need_ this deal, Lars. That's why we agreed to their terms in the first place, remember? Why else would you be pair-bonding with that little Islander pup?"

                Lars clenched his fists, feeling defensive on Matt's behalf. "I know, but—"

                "Think of the clan, Lars," said the Clan Leader seriously.

                "I _am_ thinking of the clan!" Lars replied. "I'm thinking of their safety! You would risk the entire village for the sake of a trade agreement? There are more important things than profit! I will _not_ risk the lives of my family, the life of my future mate, for your greed—!"

                The Clan Leader's fist flew out and punched his pup. Lars' head whipped to the side on impact and his cheek stung, reddening, but he didn't make a sound. Deliberately, he fought the instinctive urge to attack in retaliation, to assert his dominance as an Alpha. Instead, he faced his father. The Clan Leader's gaze smouldered and his voice was low. He said:

                "Do not raise your voice to me, _pup._ I am the Clan Leader and I am your Sire. Someday you will inherit my position, but until that day I will _not_ be disrespected or disobeyed. _Is that clear_?"

                Impatiently, he grabbed Lars' scalp and jerked his head.

                " _Yes_!" Lars gasped through clenched teeth.

                "Good." Satisfied, the Clan Leader turned to the second-in command, who stood silently by. "Re-enforce the floodgates, and not a word to the Islanders about it. Not a word to _anyone_."

                The second-in command nodded, his eyes downcast. "Yes, Clan Leader," he said, and then left.

                After a moment of tense silence, Lars shook his head. "It's wrong," he said. He faced the window shudders, which rattled against the wind. "They're giving us their Omega-pup, Vader. They deserve to know what they're getting in return. They deserve to know that he'll be taken care of. I don't intend to lie to my mate—"

                "That's _exactly_ what you'll do," the Clan Leader interrupted. "For the future security of your clan, Lars."

                Lars didn't reply. Instead, he pictured Matt in his mind's eye: the beautiful violet-eyed Omega, who looked so soft and frail; who looked so afraid. _I made him a promise_ , he thought. A promise that he, as an Alpha-mate, intended to keep. _I want him to feel safe. I want to protect him. I want to_ —

                The Clan Leader chuckled then. "Oh, my," he said, drawing Lars' attention. "You're infatuated with that little Islander, aren't you? Oh, Lars." He shook his head. Lars glared. "I want you to pair-bond with Matthew Kirkland, too, but for the sake of the treaty, not _this_." The Clan Leader gestured to Lars, implying his pup's _infatuation_. "He's just an Omega, Lars. A very pretty one, but he's just as weak as all the others. They're _all_ weak," he said, his voice suddenly, unintentionally hoarse.

                He tried to hide it, but Lars heard the heartbroken undertone in his father's words. Immediately, he thought of his lovely Omega-mother, who had been too weak to fight the sickness that had taken her from them six years ago. He remembered how miserable his Alpha-father had been; inconsolable. He remembered how much her death had hurt them all.

                After a moment's pause, the Clan Leader cleared his throat. "Omegas are replaceable," he said stonily, "but a trade contract is not. No matter what, the clan is what must survive. That's the burden of being Clan Leader, Lars. Our _bloodline_ ," he emphasised sternly, " _must_ survive at all costs. Mate Matthew Kirkland, and if he dies then mate Alfred Kirkland. It doesn't make a difference. One Omega can breed just as well as another. Your Moeder was my third mate; you know that. And if she had died before giving birth to you, my Alpha-pup, my heir, I would have taken a fourth. Do you understand why, Lars? Do you understand what Omegas are for?"

                Lars swallowed, feeling suddenly hollow. His fight had fled in the face of cold, cruel reality and the memory of grief. He didn't want to think of beautiful Matt as nothing but breeding-stock, but his father was right. The world was a harsh place and it was his sworn-duty as the future Clan Leader to protect his family—his _whole_ family. If that meant mating an Omega for the sole purpose of breeding pups—

                Quietly, he said: "I promised Matthew that I would never hurt him. I promised that he would be safe here."

                The Clan Leader signed deeply and clapped his pup's shoulder. "Maybe you shouldn't have."


	12. Lost Boys – Chapter Three

I am happy to announce that my Lars has chosen an Omega to pair-bond with," said the Clan Leader. "Matthew, my dear." He extended his hand to Matt, who obediently took it. The Clan Leader's hand was very big and warm. It enveloped Matt's and pulled him to the forefront of the dais. Lars was standing on the other side and stepped forward when called. "My Lars," said the Clan Leader, interlacing their hands together, "has chosen to take Matthew Kirkland, of the Kirkland family, to be his Omega-mate."

                Lars squeezed Matt's hand as a roar of approval erupted. Despite Matt's anxiety—or, perhaps because of it—he leant slightly into the Alpha's touch, seeking a shield.

                As the Clan Leader invited Scott forward to publically discuss the treaty agreements—the clan-members of the Low Countries listened intently—Matt let his gaze wander sideways and found Lars staring at him. It was discrete. When he met the Omega's violet eyes, the Alpha's lips curled into a smile and he winked. In surprise, Matt blushed.

                To distract himself, he remembered Lars' proposal, which had taken place earlier that day.

* * *

**SEVEN HOURS AGO**

Lars invited Matt into the walled-garden. It was raining. He held an umbrella to _protect_ Matt (his exact word-choice). Matt took Lars' arm in escort, applying the gentlest pressure to the Alpha's muscular bicep, and felt himself blush at the contact. Last night he had been too anxious to truly appreciate what a perfect specimen the Low-Lander was, but now, in the (cloudy) daylight, he couldn't deny how handsome the young Alpha was. He felt nervous being alone with him. But it was a new, different kind of nervous. When Lars captured Matt's gaze and smiled, the Islander felt a flutter in his stomach. _If nothing else_ , he thought, smiling shyly back, _Papa and Scott have excellent taste in Alphas._

                Lars led Matt to the dove-white gazebo, where he set the umbrella aside. He released Matt, letting the Omega take a step toward the railing. To avoid conversation, Matt took an immediate interest in a cluster of yellow tulips that were thriving nearby. He feigned ignorance, though he could feel Lars' eyes on him, following his movements. It made Matt blush redder, guessing at where those intense Alpha eyes lingered. Self-consciously, he shifted his weight and glanced sideways. Matt could see Lars' sight-line in his peripheral vision, plastered to his backside and the swell of his wide Omega hips. The Alpha's desire was apparent on his face: an open-faced expression, because he didn't think that Matt could see him. Absently, Lars licked his lips. Matt pursed his own, hoping that Lars couldn't hear his heartbeat.

                When Lars said "Matthew" his deep voice harboured a pinch of that desire, but when Matt turned, Lars' face was the inexpressive face of a gentleman once more.

                "Yes—?" Matt replied innocently.

                "I think you know why I've brought you here," Lars said, forthright. Uninvited, he took both of Matt's hands, conveying his meaning. His grasp was gentle, yet eager. His hands were warm. "Both of us know why you're here," he said. "Here in the Low Countries. I won't pretend not to see how anxious you are." In reflex, Matt broke eye-contact. The Alpha's straightforward speech made him feel small. He bowed his head, but almost at once Lars lifted his chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. "Don't look down," he said gently. "Don't be afraid of me. I made you a promise, didn't I? I promised that I would take care of you, and I will. I'll protect you," he repeated. " You don't need to be afraid. I really like you," he confessed. "I think you're the most beautiful Omega I've ever seen." Like a courtier, his fingers moved from Matt's jaw to his cheek before threading into the Omega's pale curls. This time, Matt didn't flinch. This time, he inhaled and let himself indulge in the Alpha's touch. Encouraged, Lars continued: "I think I can make you happy.

                "Matthew—"

                Lars' touch was tender, yet strong. _Alpha_ strong. It promised everything that Matt's body had yearned for in Heat. Instinctively, he wanted to lean into that touch. He wanted to be enveloped by it. His heart pounded in desire and panic.

                "—will you be my mate?" Lars asked.

                Matt's reply was a whisper: " _Yes_."

* * *

**PRESENT**

Matt clutched Lars' hand tightly, feeling conflicted. He had accepted Lars' proposal as ordered by Scott, yet his pulse hadn't slowed since. His heart pounded; his stomach fluttered. He didn't know whether it was a good sign or not that Lars' proximity prompted such a reaction in him, but it was unwelcome nonetheless. Matt hated when his self-control yielded to nature. It was too much like being in Heat, which made him uncomfortable. He didn't want to admit it, but his body's wanton reaction to Lars embarrassed him. Fortunately, everyone else seemed to blame his flushed face on the bashfulness of an infatuated Omega.

                _That's fine_ , _let them think it_.

                It was better than the truth, which shocked him. Because for the first time in his life, Matt Kirkland actually _wanted_ an Alpha to touch him.

                He was nervous to pair-bond with Lars, but neither did he want to let go of the Alpha's big hand. Subtly, Lars rubbed his thumb over Matt's middle finger, which was now adorned with a gold band. It was a beautiful example of metalwork, which Lars had gifted to him when he had accepted the Alpha's proposal. Gift-giving was an old custom of claiming: a symbol of Lars' ownership over Matt, mated or not. It signified to everyone—especially other Alphas—that Matt was now taken and no longer available for courting. When Lars had first slipped the band onto Matt's finger, the Omega's breath had caught and he had imagined a shackle. Quickly, he had cast off the grim thought.

                As the clan-members howled and cheered in support for the treaty, Matt's mind returned to the present. His frozen smile reanimated as he caught several of the Low-Landers' eyes. Many came forward to congratulate the newly engaged couple. Matt smiled and accepted their well-wishes, even if he had forgotten all their names. The official pair-bonding ceremony— _Does there have to be an official ceremony_? Matt cringed—was scheduled for the following night, which meant that this night would be both of their last as un-bonded individuals. After the ceremony, and once they were mated, Matt and Lars would cease to be separate beings under clan-law and would thenceforth be considered as one: An Alpha and his Omega-mate. The pair-bonding ceremony might be a mere formality due to Lars' high status, but the mating that followed was binding.

                Matt was permitted to leave the evening's party early. In fact, he was encouraged to do so.

                "Rest up, little Omega," they said jovially, half-drunk. "You'll need your energy for tomorrow night."

                Lars and Matt would not be mated for at least a month (as long as the Alpha's patience held out), since it was tradition—and a kindness—for a first mating to be during the Omega's Heat. The primary function of mating was, first and foremost, to breed pups, after all; and mating for the first time could be painful for the Omega otherwise. Yet, the Low-Landers joked and whistled and wolf-howled regardless, intent on embarrassing Lars, who only snorted in good-humour and rolled his eyes, unbothered by their antics.

                "You've got a _long_ night ahead of you, darling!" someone called to Matt.

                "Mated on Monday, pregnant by Sunday," someone else rhymed, producing a raucous uproar.

                When a highly inebriated Alpha pulled Lars close, and half-shouted: "Let me give you some advice, pup—" Matt took it as his cue to leave.

                He cast a meek smile over-the-shoulder as he retired, even though the Alphas' jests made him feel cheap. He just wanted to leave, to be alone. Without the security of Lars beside him, he felt too exposed, like a target. Quickly, he took his leave, denying several offers of escort.

                As he was exiting the Great House he caught sight of Scott and Francis, who had been helpless to rescue Matt from the crowd. They were standing near the dais, celebrating with the loud Clan Leader, though both of them looked unusually sober. In fact, Francis, who had been so eager for the treaty before, now looked as though he might be sick. His hands were curled into tight, chalk-white fists at his sides and his blue eyes smouldered, unblinking. Matt wanted to go to him, but a sea of rowdy, inebriated Low-Landers stood between them. Instead, he slipped outside.

                He didn't take an umbrella. He let the raindrops soak him. He let the wind tug at his clothes and hair. By the time he reached the guesthouse, he was drenched from head-to-toe, his curls slicked to his face and neck. He went to his and Al's bedchamber and sat down on his allotted bed. The mattress was so hard that it barely sunk under his light weight. It was dark and cold inside, but Matt didn't move to remedy either. He just sat there, staring vacantly down at the gold band encircling his finger.

                It felt like a long time before Arthur found him.

                "Matthew, love—?"

                Slowly, Matt lifted his eyes. Only when Arthur sat down beside him did Matt realize he was shivering.

                He let his Omega-father unbutton his outer layer of clothes and peeled them off, exposing snow-white skin prickly with goosebumps. He barely acknowledged Arthur's touch as the elder toweled off his pup's hair and wiped his cold cheeks. Then he took the blanket off the opposite bed and wrapped Matt in it, pulling the young Omega against his side. They sat like that for a long time, enveloped in a heavy silence, which was only disturbed by raindrops pelting the roof. Arthur kept am arm wrapped securely around Matt, and Matt laid his head on his Omega-father's shoulder, seeking warmth and comfort. Finally, Arthur softly asked:

                "Are you okay?"

                Matt swallowed. "Yes."

                "Matthew." Arthur pulled back and faced his violet-eyed pup. "Don't lie. Not to me, okay? I want you to tell me the truth. Tell me what you're feeling, because tomorrow is too late."

                Matt hesitated, then slowly nodded. He felt tears prick his eyes. "I'm scared," he admitted.

                "Okay." Arthur took Matt's hands and squeezed them. "Tell me. What are you scared of? Is it Lars? Don't you like him?"

                Matt avoided eye-contact and shrugged. "He's fine."

                "But—?"

                Matt opened and closed his mouth, faltering. He felt ashamed. Habitually, he bowed his head.

                "Matthew, my darling, please tell me what's wrong. I don't want you to be unhappy." Arthur cupped his pup's cheek. "Neither does your Papa," he added. Matt bit his lip, but a tear rolled down his cheek. "If you tell Francis how you feel, how scared you are, he won't make you do it. He loves you. He only wants what's best for you, darling. But if you truly don't want this, then tell him and he'll stop it." Arthur sounded hopeful, but Matt interrupted.

                "No," he said. Another tear fell. "Dad, I—I can't. This is why I was brought to the Low Countries, wasn't it? I don't want to disappoint Papa or Uncle Scott," he confessed. "I don't want all of their efforts to have been for nothing. Besides, the clan needs this treaty. It's for the benefit of everyone. As pack-leader, Scott is duty-bound to take care of the pack, our family, and I—Well, I'm still his heir, aren't I? So doesn't that make it my responsibility, too?" He hadn't vocalized it before, but it's how he felt. It's how he had always felt about everything clan-related. It's what he had been raised to feel. "I know that Lars is a good match," he acknowledged. "He's kind. I should be grateful for that, shouldn't I? Because it really could be so much worse."

                "Matthew—"

                "We're Omegas, Dad," said Matt, recycling Arthur's words unbeknownst. "This is what we're supposed to do. I've been bred to it since childhood. Besides," he shrugged hopelessly, "I can't live in the pack un-mated, and I don't want to be a burden to Papa or Scott forever. I don't think I'm ready to be mated," he admitted, "but no one is forcing me to do it. I'm doing it willingly."

                Arthur started to speak, but stopped. He recognized the resolve in Matt's violet eyes. Instead, he pulled Matt into a hug.

                "Oh, Matthew. One word to Francis and he'll stop this, love. You don't have to do this—"

                "Yes, I do," Matt argued, clutching his Omega-father in return. "I'm not a pup anymore, Dad. I know how the world works. I know what I'm worth. But," he pulled back and stared eye-to-eye with Arthur, "please don't tell anyone about _this_." He indicated his teary state; his secret fear. "Please don't tell Papa or Al, especially not Al. I don't want to upset them."

                Arthur wanted to refuse. Matt saw the conflict in his green eyes: loyalty to his Alpha-mate fighting the desire to protect his pup. Finally, he exhaled in defeat and nodded. "Fine, I won't tell. But _you_ should." That said, he pulled Matt back into his arms. "I'm going to miss you," he whispered, a catch in his voice. " _So much_."

                "I-I—I'm going to miss you, too."

                Then Matt was trembling, hugging Arthur as silent tears rolled down his cheeks.

                "I love you, Matthew. I love you _so_ much, you know that, don't you? I know I don't say it often enough, but it's true. You and Alfred are my everything. I'm so proud of you. I love you more than anything." Arthur kissed Matt once, twice. "Don't ever forget that we love you."

                Matt's voice broke. He whispered: "I love you, too."

* * *

Al threw himself into the guesthouse, narrowly dodging a cold downpour. It was late. He had been returning from the Great House when the sky suddenly opened and a deluge emptied upon the wet village. Al bolted the door behind him and listened to the storm rage outside. The wind blew fiercely, howling. Inside, the walls groaned. A stone foundation and thick wooden pillars protected those within. Al's footsteps clapped wetly on the floor as he walked to the end of the structure, where his and Matt's room was. Quietly, he pushed into the darkness and instantly felt disoriented. He could hear the storm hitting the walls, but he couldn't see anything. He could hear Matt's soft, even breaths, asleep in his bed. Or, Al had _thought_ Matt was sleeping, until his twin-brother's voice said:

                "Al."

                Al changed direction. He felt his way across the bedchamber to Matt's bed, where his brother lay curled into a defensive ball beneath the blankets. Al knelt.

                "Yeah, Mattie, I'm here."

                "Will you... stay?" Matt asked. His voice was small, uncertain. In it, Al heard loneliness.

                "Yeah, Mattie, I'll stay."

                Al undressed to his sleeping-clothes and crawled into the big bed with Matt, shimmying close. The instant he laid down, he found Matt's arms coiled around his midsection, his pale-blonde head pressed to his chest. Al tensed in shock. Matt was cold and trembling, but Al would have bet it had little to do with the temperature. He hugged his twin to his chest, sharing his body-heat, lending comfort. _I'm sorry_ , _Mattie. I'm sorry I haven't been here. I'm sorry you've felt so alone lately._ Al rested his head atop Matt's, absently breathing in Matt's soft, sweet scent. Al used to tease Matt, saying that he smelled like dessert: "Like clotted cream on strawberries! It's no wonder the Alphas want to taste you!" he had joked. Matt had laughed back then, but he wasn't laughing now. Neither of them was. Al found himself fighting down unwanted emotion, a feeling of emptiness that gnawed at him. To distract himself, he focused on Matt. Matt, who had _mothered_ Al for as long as the blue-eyed Omega could remember; who had held him and talked to him and cared for him almost as often as Arthur; who had always laughed at Al's jokes; who had never failed to support all Al's endeavours, all his ridiculous plots. Matt, who had been Al's constant companion since birth. Nobody understood Al the way Matt did.

                _You're my favourite person in the whole world_ , _Mattie. I don't want to lose you_.

                "Al," Matt whispered. Al felt Matt's breath on his skin.

                "Yeah?"

                "I'm sorry."

                Al felt a lump in his throat. He hugged Matt tighter, trying to be strong for Matt's sake. Stronger than he had ever been before. But when he spoke, his voice was weak. He said:

                "Yeah, me too."

                "Stay here with me, okay?" Matt asked. The night was cold and lonely. "Don't leave me."

                "I won't, I promise." A tear rolled down Al's cheek. "It's you and me forever, Mattie, remember? Always."

                Matt sighed in relief. " _Always_."

* * *

**THE NEXT DAY**

A wicked storm continued to brew, but the pair-bonding ceremony went ahead as planned.

                True to his word, Al stayed with Matt all day. They slept-in late, then ate dinner together in the bedchamber. At half-seven in the evening, Francis told Matt he had to stop stalling and prepare for the ceremony. Al helped him get ready. He combed Matt's freshly-bathed hair and ironed his clothes, helping him dress. It was the most Omega-like he had ever been. Finally, at nine o'clock Al headed to the Great House with his family. Francis took Matt's arm in escort; Al held his other hand, flanking the violet-eyed Omega. He glanced sideways at his twin-brother and secretly smiled. Despite his nerves, Matt looked perfectly composed. It made Al proud. He squeezed Matt's hand in support, but at the entrance to the Great House he was forced to let his brother go.

                "Alfred, let go," Arthur said, taking Al's forearm in guidance. Gently, he led Al in one direction, while Francis and Scott led Matt in another.

                At that moment, Matt glanced over-the-shoulder at Al, revealing panic, but he answered Al's smile with one of his own.

                _It's going to be okay_ , _Mattie. Trust Papa_ , _trust Scott. Trust Lars_ , Al thought when he spotted the Alpha. He looked good, sage-green eyes full of lust and wonder as he watched Matt's approach. Al clenched his fists. _You'd better take good care of my brother_ , _you Low-Lander. You'd better make him happy_.

                The pair-bonding ceremony was short. At the dais, Scott stopped, overseeing the proceedings as pack-leader. Francis, as Matt's Alpha-father, gave his consent to the union, but held tight to his pup until the last possible moment. When it came, he was stiff; formal. He placed Matt's hand in Lars'. Then the young couple faced each other and made ages old vows: Lars swore to protect and provide for Matt, and Matt swore to obey Lars. Then it was over. After all the pomp and ceremony of the past week, Al was surprised by the anticlimactic finish.

                "What now?" he asked, watching clan-members swarm the dais, shouldering Scott and Francis aside. Matt belonged to them now.

                "Well," said Arthur, catching his Alpha-mate's eye, "usually the newly pair-bonded couple would leave to..."

                "Mate?" Al inserted, just as Francis reached them.

                Arthur glanced at Francis, who hadn't relaxed. "Uh, yes. But that won't happen for Lars and Matthew yet."

                "Unless he's feeling frisky tonight," Al said. Arthur elbowed him in the ribs. " _Ow_!"

                "Alfred, please," Arthur said. Discretely he indicated Francis, whose cold eyes openly glared at the dais. "Uh, Francis, love—?"

                Francis stood as stiff as stone when Arthur touched his arm. Noting his Omega-mate's concern, however, he forced a smile. It looked a little too wide in Al's opinion, like his Alpha-father's face might suddenly crack.

                Arthur and Al exchanged a worried glance. The former said: "Are you okay?"

                "Of course," Francis' grin grew wider, his blue eyes unblinking. "I just handed my pup over to an Alpha who is going to defile him," he said with sarcastic cheerfulness. "Just look at him," he jutted his chin at Lars, "he can't wait. I don't trust his patience, Arthur. He's too eager. What if he hurts my Mathieu? I would have refused it, you know," he said, his tone suddenly sobering. He looked between Al and Arthur in confidence. "If Mathieu had asked, I would have refused the contract."

                "I know you would have," said Arthur, slipping his hand into Francis'.

                It was then that Scott rejoined them. "Well," he said bluntly, "I'm ready to get the fuck out of here, how about you?"

                The family nodded in consensus.

                "Tomorrow we sign the free-trade agreement," Scott said. "Then, weather permitting," he scoffed, "we leave."

                "Did you talk to Matthew?" Arthur asked his brother.

                Scott's jaw tensed. "Uh huh," he grunted, avoiding eye-contact. Matt was Scott's favourite nephew; even Al knew that. "I spoke to the Clan Leader, too." His brow furrowed.

                Francis prompted: "And—?"

                But Al had lost interest in the conversation. His twin-brother had just been pair-bonded; he didn't want to stand there talking about trade contracts. Instead, he excused himself from the close-knit meeting ("I'm going to see Mattie") and headed for the dais. Matt looked small and pale compared to the Low-Landers who surrounded him. He was of a like height with most of the Omegas, yet slighter-figured; of the Alphas, he barely reached most of their chins. He stood close to Lars. Lars, whose arm had coiled possessively around Matt's small waist, holding the Omega against his side. Matt, too, played his part well. He smiled coyly like the blushing virgin he was, looking lovely in the firelight. His soft curls fell against perfect, unblemished skin, exposing his slender neck; his long, blonde eyelashes brushed his cheekbones when he lowered his eyes; his full, shapely lips lifted shyly. Matt had never looked better, Al thought. He was the picture of newly pair-bonded bliss, so beautiful, so happy that Al almost believed it. Only Matt's ice-cold eyes revealed the truth.

                A middle-aged Omega called for a kiss then, and Lars happily complied. He leant down and pressed his lips to Matt's cheek. Matt's shoulders arched defensively, but he quickly converted his discomfort into flirtation, hiding his face against Lars' bicep. Nobody noticed, except Al. Al, whose heart went out to his twin.

                Suddenly, he stopped. He didn't want to talk to Matt, not if it meant having to convey false congratulations, which he knew Matt didn't want. He didn't want to have to lie. So, instead, he slipped through a door just right of the dais and exited the hall via an anteroom. He dodged a few giddy serving-maids and followed a long corridor out into a walled-garden. _Hmm_ , _pretty_ , he acknowledged, giving the tulips no further thought. Agilely, he hoisted himself onto the rain-splattered wall and jumped over, landing gracefully on the other side.

                He glanced back at the Great House, so warm and loud and lively, but didn't feel any regret as he stalked off in the opposite direction. He wanted to be alone for a while. He braced his shoulders against the harsh wind and rain and stuffed his hands into his pockets, bowing his head. He walked directionless, with no destination in mind. Most of the village was dark, everyone congregating in the Great House, celebrating. It gave Al the opportunity to go wherever he wanted, to splash in puddles and kick stones. It gave him the freedom to be himself.

                _Matt will never get to be himself again_ , he thought sadly. Yet a small, relieved smile tugged his lips, because he finally knew for certain how he felt.

                _I'm glad it wasn't me_.

* * *

I think they've indulged you for long enough," said the Clan Leader to his brood. "Lars," he called, eyeing his son. "It's time for you and your Omega-mate to retire."

                Matt tensed at the suggestion. He was afraid that Lars felt it, but if he did, he didn't acknowledge it. He said: "Yes, Vader," then bid his family and friends goodnight.

                "Goodnight, Matthew, my dear," said the Clan Leader. The sentiment was echoed by others; some genuine, some in provocative jest.

                "Mathieu."

                Matt stopped, even as Lars pulled him toward the door. The Alpha looked down at Matt in confusion before he saw Francis, who blocked the doorway. "May I have a word with my pup, please?" he asked politely, though Matt saw flint in his blue eyes. He, too, could see Lars' impatience; Matt could physically feel it. But fortunately the Low-Lander ceded without a fuss. Matt belonged to him now, after all; he had little to fear from the Omega's sire. Curtly, he untangled Matt's limbs from his and stepped off to the side. Francis gestured for Matt, who was more than happy to comply. He followed his Alpha-father to a quiet-er area by the doors.

                "Papa—" he started, but Francis hushed him.

                "Mathieu, I just wanted to tell you how proud I am of you, _chéri_. And I wanted to apologize."

                " _Papa_ , _non_ —"

                "Hush, _bébé_. Let me say it, _s'il vous plaît_." He spoke quietly, so that no one else would hear. " _Je suis désolé_."

                Matt felt his heart clench as Francis drew him into an embrace, enveloping him in the Alpha's familiar scent. He closed his eyes and clutched Francis. " _Papa_ ," he whispered.

                Francis kissed the top of Matt's head. "Don't be frightened. It's going to be okay, _chéri_. You're going to be just fine. Do you know why?" he asked, pulling back. Matt lifted his head, meeting Francis' kind, indulgent smile. "Because you've got too much of Arthur in you not to be."

                " _Me_ —?" Matt gaped in surprise.

                Francis chuckled. " _Oui_ , _chéri_. You're a survivor, Mathieu, just like your Dad. Omegas like you and him keep going no matter what, even when it looks hopeless, even when there's nothing left, because you've got the same drive. Your Dad is not big or strong, but he has more determination than anyone I know—and so do you. You may not think so, but you've got strength of a different kind, Mathieu. You've got Arthur's strength; his will. You're survivors, both of you. You've got too much of that wild Kirkland fire in you not to be.

                "But at least you've got my looks," he added, and winked.

                Matt smiled. " _Merci_ , _Papa_." Standing on his tip-toes, he leant up and kissed Francis' cheek. " _Je t'aime_."

                " _Je t'aime aussi_ , _bébé_."

                Matt returned to Lars feeling braver than he had. He let the Alpha lead him to the second-level of the Great House, where Lars' bedchamber was located. It was a large space, sparsely furnished, and it smelled strongly of Lars. The Alpha's scent permeated everything, like a stale cologne. It wasn't like stepping into his Alpha-relatives' rooms at home, which felt familiar. As Matt stepped over the threshold into Lars' bedchamber, he was acutely aware that he was walking into an Alpha's territory. _But it's not just his anymore. It's my room now_ , _too._ Matt steeled himself. As he surveyed the space, he immediately (unintentionally) began redesigning it in his mind. It was barren. It was like a cell, but Matt was sure he could turn it into a nest given the appropriate furnishings. Specifically, he eyed an alcove by the bedside and envisioned a bassinet sitting inside.

                "Matthew—?"

                Lars invited Matt to the bed, where he sat. The hard mattress barely dipped beneath his lightweight. Coyly, he looked at Lars, and said:

                "You can call me Matt, if you want."

                "Matt," Lars repeated, testing it. "I think I prefer Matthew."

                Matt smiled to hide his disappointment. Only his parents ever called him by his full-name. He tried again. "This mattress has got to go," he said, only half-joking. He punched it. "It's like sleeping on stone."

                "No, it stays. I like it," Lars replied.

                Internally, Matt sighed. He let his gaze wander to the shuddered window, which rattled. By then the weather had evolved into a violent storm. A crash of thunder sounded at the same time Lars placed his hand on Matt's upper-thigh. He jerked back.

                "Sorry, the thunder..." he lied.

                Lars' confusion, his displeasure, yielded quickly to indulgence. "It's okay," he said, shifting closer. Matt could feel his body-heat. He could hear the Alpha's deep voice reverberate in his throat. Involuntarily, he shivered. Lars saw it and replaced his hand, letting it rest possessively on Matt's thigh. Matt felt his stomach knot in anticipation. He had to force himself not to move away, afraid of his body's reaction to the proximity; afraid that Lars would notice it. But if he did, it only encouraged him. "Matthew," he said, leaning down. His sage-coloured eyes lingered on Matt's soft lips, which parted in reply. The Alpha was so close now. Mere inches separated their faces. Matt found himself wondering what Lars' lips felt like; what they tasted like. They looked inviting. "Matthew," he repeated, quieter. Then he closed the gap between them—

                —and Matt turned his head.

                Lars kissed Matt's cheek.

                Abruptly, the Alpha pulled back in surprise. Matt instantly regretted it. He felt guilty when he looked upon Lars' face and saw disappointment and, to his horror, embarrassment. But he also saw a flash of anger and it scared him. It was subtle, but Matt could see that Lars was not someone used to being denied. An Omega was not supposed to deny his Alpha. Not ever. Especially not on their first night together. He started to apologize:

                "I'm sorry—!"

                Then the village bell tolled loudly.

                Matt flinched; Lars cursed. He leapt to his feet and crossed the bedchamber in three long-legged strides, then threw open the window shudders and leant out into the rain to survey the village below. " _Godverdomme_!" he cursed louder in retreat. Raindrops slid down the sides of his face as he stalked back to the bed. Unceremoniously, he grabbed the Omega's forearm and hauled him to his feet. His touch was inconsiderate; he squeezed Matt's arm too tight. It frightened Matt, as did the urgency in his deep, panicked voice when he said: "Come on, we need to leave."

                "But why?" Matt asked, tripping as Lars tugged him. "What's happened?"

                "It's a warning," Lars explained the tolling bell. He threw the door open. "We need to get to higher-ground. The floodgates have burst."

                " _What_? But I thought the gates were supposed to prevent a flood—"

                "Yes, they're _supposed_ to."

                "What does that mean?"

                "It means exactly what I said!" Lars snapped angrily. "It means the whole village will be flooded in minutes, and anyone left outside will get swept away. It means we need to get to the tower-house _now_."

                Matt's heart was pounding as Lars navigated the corridors. He heard pack-members yelling and running as the Great House emptied. Lars shoved his way outside into the pouring rain and suddenly Matt was bombarded by the storm's full wrath. It disoriented him. The cries of the Low-Landers faded into the distance as thunder crashed overhead; as the wind howled; as rain pelted the rooftops like a volley of arrows. Matt was soaked in seconds. He lost his footing on a muddy slope and pitched sideways. Lars caught him. "Stay close!" he yelled. His hand grasped Matt with bruising firmness. It wasn't until they had cleared the obstruction of the Great House that Matt saw the tower-house sitting on the crest of a shallow hilltop. The Low-Landers were charging toward it: Alphas, Omegas, and pups. They all seemed to know the drill, but Matt's family did not.

                "Wait, _please_!" he stopped, only to have Lars tug him forward. "Lars! My family—"

                "They'll be evacuated to the tower-house with everyone else," Lars promised. "Don't worry, they'll be safe." He started to climb the rise.

                "But my brother—"

                "He'll be there!" Lars growled, losing patience. He pulled Matt, but Matt dug his heels into the grass, refusing to budge. Lars whipped around. " _Matthew_!"

                "My brother," Matt repeated desperately, "he wasn't with my family, he left! I saw him leave the Great House before we did! He's out there somewhere! Please, let go of me! I have to find him! I have to warn him!"

                "No! It's too dangerous!" A flash of lightning lit Lars' face, revealing his fear. "Matthew—"

                "He's all alone!" Matt yelled, anger making him brave. "Let go of me! I have to find him! He won't know what that bell means!"

                "Well he's going to figure it out pretty damn fast!" Lars returned. "Matthew, I swore to protect you. You're my mate, I can't just let you— _Ah_!"

                Desperate, Matt sunk his canines into Lars' hand. He tasted blood. In reflex, Lars let go. And Matt ran.

* * *

Al heard the bell, but was not immediately concerned by its tolling. _Are they ringing a bell to celebrate_? he wondered, thinking of the newly pair-bonded couple. He shielded his face, trying and failing to spy the Great House through the sheets of rain. The wind was blowing fiercer. The raindrops felt like hailstones against his exposed skin. He knew that he shouldn't have wandered so far from the village centre, but too lost in thought and unafraid of the storm's threat, he hadn't had the forethought to trek his path and had gotten lost. It was not a large village, but the rain compromised his vision. Unable to track by scent or sound (a clap of thunder broke overhead), he found himself running into dead-ends. _Fuck_! he cursed, taking shelter beneath a bridge. The bell continued to toll, and only then did Al acknowledge it did not sound cheerful. It sounded foreboding; a warning. Cautiously, he peered around the bridge, but could not see anyone through the dense rainfall. _Where am I_? he wondered again. Suddenly, a crack of lightning illuminated a thin copse of trees and Al recognized the forest he had hunted in. _Oh_ , _fuck_! He was on the edge of the village, as far from the Great House as he could be.

                His heart hammering, Al ran, now that he knew which direction to run in. He kept his head bowed, his eyes narrowed into slits. The wind threatened to knock him off-balance, but Al's body was strong and athletic. He sped along the outskirts of the village, practised at keeping his footing on uneven, muddy terrain. He followed the bridge, then the expanse of a long stonewall.

                _There_! he spotted the Great House's rooftop. He allowed himself a breath of relief, but it was short-lived. It was then that he realized:

                The bell had stopped tolling, which meant the bell-ringer had abandoned his post.

                A stab of trepidation struck Al, urging him to run faster.

                He was one-hundred yards from the Great House when, suddenly, the stonewall adjacent to him shuddered and its gate burst, letting in a frothing torrent of sea-water. In reflex, Al started to scream and swallowed a mouthful of saltwater. He choked as the waters swept him away, downhill, away from the Great House. The Omega kicked and flailed his arms, trying to keep his head above water, but to no effect. He swallowed more of the merciless North Sea, which left him gasping in panic. The current was strong and pulled him effortlessly over the lowlands and into a canal. There, Al finally managed to catch hold of the wall. He skinned his hands on the stone, but held tightly, fingers curling like claws into the crevices. His head broke the surface and he gasped, coughing-up sea-water. Still, the current pulled and frothy waves crashed into him, testing his strength.

                " _He_ — _Help_!" he screamed, eyes squeezed shut.

                _Papa. Dad. Mattie_ —!

                " _Somebody help_!"

* * *

Matt leapt blindly and landed hard on a thatched rooftop. The ground was flooded. He had narrowly escaped a rush of sea-water as he scurried up onto a low-hanging roof. From there he climbed higher, keeping low to the structures to brace himself against the wind, which threatened to knock him off. Matt was not a graceful Omega and his pace was slow and lopsided as he fought his way forward. It was hard to see anything with cold raindrops pelting his face, but he desperately scanned the village for signs of Al—or anyone, really. Lars had chased Matt into the streets, yelling, and pleading for him to come back, but Matt hadn't listened. A part of him had hoped Lars would follow him—two pairs of eyes would find Al faster than one—but, too soon, Matt realized that Lars was gone. The realization that he was alone frightened Matt, but worry for Al took precedence. Ignoring his own fear, forgetting his own weakness, he had raced on, thinking only: _I'll find you_ , _Al_!

                "Al!" he yelled, knowing his voice was too soft. He could barely hear himself, but he yelled anyway. "Al!"

                By accident, he spotted Al clinging to the side of the canal.

                "AL!" he screamed as he neared. He didn't know if Al had actually heard him or not (likely not), but his twin-brother's feverish blue eyes opened and widened in disbelief when he saw Matt.

                _Matt_! Al's mouth formed Matt's name as he desperately reached upward.

                Matt leapt down onto the canal's stonewall and nearly lost his balance. It was slippery. His arms windmilled wildly before he caught himself. He crouched low, leaning over the side. Al's body was low, but he pushed himself up, kicking his legs, clawing at the stone. Matt laid flat on his belly and extended his arm as far as he dared. Al pushed off the stones and grabbed for Matt's hand. Briefly their fingers touched before Al fell back down, submerging; his fingers were raw and bloody. "Al!" Matt yelled, encouraging his brother to try again. _I'm not leaving you here_! Al tried again, and this time he managed to grab Matt's hand. His weight nearly pulled Matt down, but, fueled with adrenaline, the smaller Omega held strong. "I've got you!" he yelled, readying to pull Al up.

                Then Al's eyes went wide in horror, and he screamed: " _Mattie_ , _look out_!"

                The North Sea slammed into Matt with the force of a tempest and swept him off the wall and into the canal.

                Matt held tight to Al's hand as a powerful current tossed him to-and-fro, carrying the young Omega-twins to the edge of the lowlands, away from the village. Away from their family. Away from safety. And into the Rhine.

                Matt screamed as loud as he could, but nobody heard him.

                Then there was nothing.

* * *

Arthur's green eyes searched the crowded tower-house fervently, hoping to catch sight of his pups. He was clutching Francis' hand so tightly, his fingernails dug crescents into the Alpha's wet skin. The Omega was wide-eyed, drenched, and shivering, but he refused to sit or be comforted. He dragged Francis back-and-forth, shoving clan-members aside as he searched for a sign of Al and Matt.

                "I can't find their scents," Scott reported, returning. His face was so pale, his vibrant locks looked blood-red.

                Once more, Arthur looked hopefully to Francis, but the blue-eyed Alpha sadly shook his head. "How is it that neither of you can smell them?" he snapped, short-tempered in fear. He could feel a panic-attack churning in the pit of his stomach, but fought it.

                "They're not here," said Scott, like a harbinger of gloom.

                "They have to be!"

                "Arthur, _s'il vous plaît_ —" Francis started, then abruptly stopped.

                Arthur followed his sightline and saw Lars—alone.

                Ignoring propriety, the Omega marched up to the young Low-Lander and violently grabbed his shirt-front. "Where is my Matthew? _Where is he_?" he yelled.

                Several nearby clan-members leapt up in defense, but Lars, himself, didn't fight. He let Arthur shake him, keeping his gaze downcast. When he spoke, his voice was full of regret: "I'm sorry. I lost him. I'm so sorry."

                "What do you mean _you_ _lost him_?" Arthur snarled, showing his teeth. He felt Francis' hand clasp his arched shoulder; not in shame, but in support.

                In a dangerous tone that sent a shiver down Arthur's spine, the Alpha said: "Where is my Mathieu?"           

                Lars swallowed, visibly upset. "He ran. I tried to follow, but I couldn't. I—I lost him," he repeated quietly.

                Arthur didn't understand. "Why would Matthew run?"

                "He went to find Alfred."

                " _Alfred_? My Alfred is gone, too?"

                It was a weak, helpless question. Arthur let go of Lars. There was no lie in the Alpha's eyes, only remorse. His confirmation of the Omega-twins' absence shattered something inside of Arthur and, just as quickly as it came, his rage abated. "No, no." He shook his head. Hot, salty tears flooded his eyes, but he blinked to clear them. He took a deep breath to keep the panic at bay. Then, without warning, he dashed to the tower-house doors, the ones that had been bolted against the onslaught of the storm, and he threw himself against them. He pounded his fists on the thick wood and iron, trying to shake it, trying to pull it open. "Let me out!" he screamed, fueled by fear and adrenaline. The Low-Lander guards just stared at him in pity: the small, helpless Islander. Soon, Francis grabbed Arthur around the middle and pulled him back, restraining his violent protests. Arthur knew that he was making a scene, but he didn't care.

                "Let me out!" he screamed. "Let me out, my pups are out there! I need to find them! My Alfred and Matthew, please—!"

                " _Arthur_!" Francis growled. He took the Omega's wild-eyed face in his hands, forcing Arthur to look at him. Sternly, he said: "I will find our pups, I promise. But you need to stay here."

                "No," Arthur refused. He grabbed fistfuls of his Alpha-mate's wet shirt. "I can't. I want them back _now_. Let me go!" he snarled, struggling. "Francis, let go! I have to find them. I—"

                "I said _no_!" Francis snapped loudly. Arthur flinched. Frightened, he looked up into his Alpha-mate's pained blue eyes, which mirrored the fear and sorrow that he, himself, felt. Deliberately, Francis pressed their cold foreheads together and held Arthur firmly. In a soft, strained voice, he said: "I can't lose you, too.

                "Stay here," he ordered. "I promise, I will find our pups."

                Slowly, teary-eyed, Arthur nodded. "Bring them back to me, Francis."

                Francis kissed Arthur's forehead in good-faith, but before he could move, the Clan Leader's voice filled the room.

                "No one is going anywhere," he said. "The doors stay closed. It's too dangerous to leave right now."

                Francis pierced the Clan Leader with a sharp glare, but it was Scott who spoke:

                "My kin are in danger," he said, voice low and rasping; a near-growl. His body was as taut as a bowstring. His fierce Lincoln-green eyes smouldered, the eyes of a hunter. "Let us out."

                "No," the Clan Leader refused. Several of his hunters stood behind him, eyeing the Islanders wearily. "Don't be stubborn. It's too dangerous to leave the tower-house; too dangerous to open the doors. I am sorry for your losses, I really am, but I will not risk _my_ clan. You will not find Alfred and Matthew tonight, not in _that_." He gestured to the rafters, indicating the raging storm. "I am very sorry," he repeated earnestly. "It is truly a tragedy, but..." He hesitated, momentarily cowed by the intensity of the Islanders' glares. "There is nothing that you or anyone can do right now. If you leave, you will be consumed by the flood. We will help you search for Alfred and Matthew when the storm abates, but until then I'm afraid those two pups are on their own."

                The definitive tone of his words hit Arthur like a devastating blow. Francis and Scott surged forward to argue with the Clan Leader, but without Francis' support, Arthur's head spun. All at once, the raw panic-attack he had been fighting overwhelmed him and his body suddenly collapsed. A vision of Al and Matt swam vividly before his horrified eyes. _No_ , _not my pups_! _My pups_ —!

He heard Francis yell: " _Arthur_!"

                Then he fainted.


	13. Lost Boys – Chapter Four

**WESTERN EMPIRE**

**WILDERNESS**

Al felt cold, wet, itchy. He inhaled the earthy scent of mud; felt it squish against his cold cheek. It made a sucking sound. His eyelids felt heavy, but he slowly peeled them open. His thick blonde lashes were clumped. His sight blurred. A teardrop—no, raindrops rolled down his cheek. Fat raindrops fell relentlessly as Al stared, absently watching them splash into a deep pool: a puddle. The forest was loud. Windless, the raindrops fell vertically, pelting big-leaved foliage and bouncing off evergreen needles like little hollow drumbeats. Amphibious life croaked and a nearby _plop_ alerted Al to the direction of the creatures, the river. He tried to rise, but his body was stiff. With effort he pushed himself onto his elbows and pulled at the reeds, slithering over the riverbank like a disoriented serpent. His leg throbbed, but his burning throat demanded water. Despite being soaked, he was parched. He licked raindrops off his lips before descending to the river, which was flowing at a happy, harmless pace. The water revived him. Since both of his hands were filthy, he stuck his whole face into the river and lapped greedily. The current tugged gently at his hair, as if mocking the storm's previous mercilessness. That had only been a few—hours, days—? ago.

                _Fuck_ , he thought, surveying the forest with a degree of fleeting clarity. _Where am I_?

                _Where is_ _Mattie_? "Ma—" _cough cough_

Al's head pounded. He felt weak, deafened, barely half-conscious. He retreated and took shelter beneath a dense canopy. Shivering, he pulled his legs to his chest and closed his eyes.

* * *

Later, Al awoke. It was still raining. The sky was still dark.

                He had no notion of how long he had been asleep, but it was hunger that woke him. It gnawed at him, a deep, angry, all-consuming hunger that made him feel sick. He tried to rise, but this time his body collapsed. " _Aah-roo_!" A howl escaped him. His left leg was red, swollen, and searing-hot. The sharpness of the pain brought tears to his eyes. His hand hovered over the wound, which oozed thick, gelatinous blood, but he didn't touch it. He was too afraid that the bone was broken. _If it's broken_ , _I'm as good as dead._ _I can't move_. _I can't hunt_ —

                His stomach growled in protest, clawing at his insides worse than ever. The pain was worse than his injured leg; together, the pain was torture. Al had been starving now for days; weeks. _Why did I do this to myself_? he thought in self-hatred. For vanity, he was starving. For vanity, he was too weak to save himself. For vanity, he was going to die.

                _If I don't eat something soon_ , _I'm going to die_.

                Fueled by desperation and raw adrenalin, Al dragged his long, heavy body back to the river, inch-by-inch. It depleted his strength. He had to rest—briefly, he passed-out—before he managed to push himself to sitting, and then kneeling in the long reeds. Feeling woozy, he watched the water's clear surface for the shadow of fish. Fortunately, he didn't wait long; the river was plentiful. Clumsily, Al slipped as he plunged his hands into the water, startling the fish. Half-submerged he waited, then fervently tried again. By the fourth try, he was frustrated. He clawed angrily at the water, lacking the tact that Francis had taught him, but eventually he succeeded in procuring a wet, wriggling fish. He squeezed it tightly as he shimmied back onto the bank, but his hands were weak and trembling. The slippery fish fell and flopped onto the grass. Al descended on it like a wild animal, refusing to lose it. With no knife to decapitate and gut it, he simply grabbed it by the tail and beat it against a rock until it ceased to move. Then he sunk his teeth into it, coating his lips in blood. It tasted horrid. At first he gagged, but each bite was easier to swallow than the last; each bite eased the gnawing pain of starvation. He devoured the meager meal, spitting out bits of bone and scales, until there was nothing left but the creature's round, glassy eyeballs. Then, panting, Al crawled back to the canopy, where he was very suddenly and very messily sick. Heaving and gagging, he vomited everything that he had just eaten, his stomach rejecting the raw meat, which had been consumed too fast. The effort left Al exhausted and dehydrated.

                _No_ , he cried, collapsing on the wet grass. _This can't be happening. I can't die out here_ , _I won't_. _I refuse_. _I'm a survivor_! _I'm stronger than this_! _I—I—I—_

                He blacked-out.

* * *

Al felt heavy. He laid on his back on the grass and stared absently at the canopy, green leaves yellowed by sunlight. He blinked. Even his eyelids felt heavy— _so heavy_. The pain in his head, belly, leg had numbed, but he couldn't move. The effort of wiggling a single finger, of licking dry lips, of opening his half-closed eyes was too much. He felt the sun's soft kiss on his face, but that was all.

                _Am I dead_? he wondered. He tried to take a deep, slow breath, but his chest was heavy. _I must be. The living world was so wet and dark_ , _but this place is dry and bright._ _So bright_. He closed his eyes, shielding his blues from the penetrating sunrays. It turned his eyelids red; he envisioned dilating spots. _Is this the afterlife_? _Will the spirits of the dead come to take me to paradise_? _Did I drown_? _Did I starve_? Al's parched lips curled into a sardonic grin and a dry, choked chuckle escaped him. _I guess I was wrong. I wasn't strong enough_ , _after all. I couldn't survive. Dad was right_ , he thought, a single tear rolling down his cheek, _Omegas can't survive alone_.

                A caress, stronger and warmer than sunlight, touched his face. His eyes fluttered and half-opened. At first he saw nothing, then a face took shape. He saw violet eyes and thought in relief: _Mattie._

                But it couldn't be Matt. Matt was gone, lost. Unless he was dead, too.

                Instead of sorrow, Al relaxed. He took comfort in the thought of Matt being dead, as well. He didn't want to go to the afterlife alone. _You and I together_ , _Mattie. Always_.

                He smiled.

* * *

Ivan stared down at the Omega-pup, curious. _Where did you come from_? he wondered, kneeling down. The Omega's skin was caked with dried mud. It camouflaged his prostrate figure, lying in the long grass. He wore more dried mud than clothes. His garments were soiled, wet and tattered. The Alpha wouldn't have spotted him lying there if he hadn't smelled blood. The salty, iron scent of the Omega's blood was mixed with more pungent, earthy scents, but the closer he crept, the more discernible the Omega's natural scent became. That's when Ivan realized his youth; only fourteen, maybe fifteen-years-old. The swollen river had swallowed the poor, unlucky thing and deposited him here. How far he had been dragged, tossed to-and-fro, Ivan didn't know. He sighed. He had seen many—too many—dead Omegas in his life already. He had seen them bloodied, beaten, and raped. _Consider yourself lucky that the river got you_ , _little one_.

                Ivan reached for the Omega's throat, thinking to relieve him of his adornments—Westerners often wore their valuables around the neck and wrists—but instead found himself touching the Omega's cheek. As soon as he did, the Omega's eyelids fluttered and opened. Ivan blinked, frozen in surprise.

                _Not dead_ —?

                The Omega's jewel-blue eyes stared up at him, seeing, not him, but someone else. His lips parted and silently formed a word, a name. Then those parched lips curled into a peaceful smile.

                Ivan cocked an eyebrow. "Omega—?" he said. But the Omega's blue eyes had already rolled back in his head; not dead, just fainted. Ivan tapped his cheek, but he didn't stir. He leant forward and listened acutely to the Omega's weak heartbeat; felt his shallow breaths. Then he sat back on his haunches, thinking on what to do. He could leave the Omega, he was half-dead anyway. Ivan needn't feel his body to know that he was starved, he could see it. _He probably won't survive the night_. Westerners were weak; that's what he had been taught. He had been taught— _bred—_ to kill the barbarous lot of them. _It's a mercy_ , he decided, standing in retreat. _He'll die peacefully in his sleep. There's no use in me prolonging his suffering._ Mercy was self-taught in the Eastern Empire. Over the years, Ivan had learnt how to put down an enemy like a beloved pet, quickly and not without feeling.

                _But—_

                He started to leave, then stopped.

                — _is he an enemy_?

                He glanced back at the young Omega, who looked nothing but helpless. And he sighed.

* * *

Al dreamt of flying, like the birds. His body no longer felt heavy, but hollow; weightless. He pictured himself soaring, his arms outstretched; or sailing like a boat on a wavy air-current; or hanging suspended in midair, floating gently. He pictured an eagle's nest perched high in the trees, a throne for the king of all birds, and he, himself, the eagle. It was a cozy nest, insulated with furs and hides, like Al's bed at home. He nestled down, burrowing beneath a wing, a feather-soft touch.

                He drifted in-and-out of consciousness, aware of a brightness, of warmth, the vague taste of liquid food, but nothing else. Too soon his waking-mind yielded to the desires of his dream-self and he was an eagle again, flying. He soared high above the treetops, screeching loudly in a show of dominance. He alone was the predator of the skies. But he always returned to the same nest every night. It's where he felt safest.

                Again, he awoke. His dreams shifted and transformed to accommodate the atmosphere, but always he was a great bird of prey. Always, he returned to the nest.

                Finally, after countless days—countless flights—Al's mind awoke for real.

                The first thing he noticed was the fire, the orange flames dancing merrily in a pit. The second was the arched vault and rock walls of a cave. The third was the fish smoking over the fire.

                Al's eyes dilated predatorily in hunger. Single-minded, he pushed himself onto his hands-and-knees, letting a thick pelt slip off his naked shoulders as he crawled out of the bedding and over to the fire. He winced, favouring his uninjured leg, sparing a glance for his left, which was wrapped tightly in stiff cloth, then resumed his hunt. Eagerly, he wrenched one of the fish from its stake and sunk his teeth into it. It was hot. It burnt his tongue, but he didn't slow. His teeth tore into the flaky, smoked fish flesh with vigour. Dusty mud peeled off his face as he chewed, but he didn't slow to scratch his dry, itchy skin. He devoured the fish, tossed the bones aside, and grabbed another. He was halfway through his third when a dark, formidable shadow engulfed him.

                Al tensed, but didn't speak; didn't try to hide; didn't let go of the half-eaten fish. He stared unblinking at the Alpha, whose cold, violet gaze was unforthcoming. In fact, it was challenging. _Those aren't just the eyes of a hunter_ , Al thought, half in apprehension; half in admiration. He was the biggest, tallest Alpha whom Al had ever seen; bigger even than Lars. It brought to mind Arthur's folktales. _He must have giant's blood in him_! But unlike those vile beasts, the Alpha was not unsightly. No—not by far. He looked like a warrior, like Scott, but bolder, broader in the shoulders and chest. His face was well-sculpted, defined by long, flat planes and a slightly hooked nose. He had a wide mouth, a strong jaw, and skin as luminescent in the fire's glow as a pearl. A windswept mane of silver-blonde hair crowned his head, shielding one glaring eye from view. The other was feline in shape and as hard and vibrant as amethyst.

                Al found himself staring back, meeting the Alpha's gaze, not in challenge, but in intrigue.

                Finally, the Alpha spoke. His voice was like deep-water; Al felt it. He said: "Aren't you afraid, little one?"

                Al's reply was reflex: "No."

                The Alpha's throat vibrated with a growl. He stepped forward, close enough to swallow Al in his shadow, and lifted his head, making himself seem—if possible—even taller. Everything about him was large, bred to intimidate. He was not graceful. He moved abruptly, deliberately, like a heavy-footed stalker; and forward, never in retreat. When his advance provoked no reaction from Al, the Alpha lowered himself slowly to his haunches, staring down at the Omega from a shorter distance. "Not afraid?" he asked rhetorically. His voice was provocative of a threat. He took Al's chin in a powerful hand and forced his head up. (His hands were huge!) He needn't have bothered with the theatrics. Al had no intention of looking away first. In a deep, mocking voice, the Alpha said: "A brave little thing, aren't you? _Proud_ ," he growled, showing his canines.

                The sound sent a shiver down Al's spine, but despite the Alpha's efforts, he remained unafraid. The Alpha's hand was big and strong, capable of crushing bones, but his touch was gentle. _He's trying to frighten me_ , _not hurt me_. Al raised his head even higher, nearly nose-to-nose with the Alpha, and, flavouring his tone with as much arrogance as possible, said: "Pride is what keeps you alive.

                "You're not going to hurt me," he gambled, encouraged by the Alpha's silence. "You wouldn't have saved me if you were."

                "I didn't save you," said the Alpha, releasing Al. He stood and stepped back. "I took pity on you."

                Al heard the bite, a verbal-blow, but couldn't be offended. If Al had learnt his pride from somewhere, it was from the Alphas. And this one—looks aside—was no different.

                "Aren't you cold?" the Alpha asked. Subtly, his violet eyes drew attention to Al's nakedness.

                Al glanced down at himself, covered in dry mud and goose-bumps. "Yes," he admitted, unabashed. Al's Alpha friends had seen him nude so often that any bashfulness he might have felt had long since fled. _Look all you want_ , he used to tease good-humouredly, _but only I decide who gets to touch._ A rude gesture always followed, but Al refrained. He didn't think that this Alpha, this stranger, would appreciate the joke in the same way the Islanders did. In the end, it was the Alpha who grabbed the pelt from the bed and chucked it at Al, a gesture of peace—or at least a cease-fire.

                "You're an Islander," said the Alpha, sitting down by the fireside. It was a fact, not a question. His violet gaze watched the Omega cover himself. "You speak English," he added in explanation.

                "Yes, but you're not," Al said needlessly. The Alpha spoke English with a thick, undulating accent, the likes of which Al had never heard. Suspiciously, he asked: "How did you know to address me in English?"

                The Alpha grinned wickedly before revealing: "You talk in your sleep."

                Al clutched the pelt tighter, feeling suddenly exposed by that grin.

                When he failed to reply, the Alpha cocked his head, and asked: "What's an Islander-pup doing so far inland?"

                "I'm not a pup, I'm fifteen," Al said, affronted. "And my name is Al. Alfred Kirkland."

                The Alpha inclined his head in mock-apology, but in sincere acknowledgement. Al waited, then said:

                "Aren't you going to tell me your name?"

                "Ivan," he said stoically.

                Again, Al waited. "Ivan—? Ivan who?" he prompted. On the Isles and in the Low Countries the family-name denoted the clan. It was more telling than a given-name, more important.

                But Ivan was adamant in his secrecy. "Just Ivan," he said.

                "Fine," Al conceded unhappily. He shifted, favouring his uninjured leg. Ivan's unblinking gaze was starting to make him feel uncomfortable like no Alpha's ever had. It was the focus, he decided, like a hunter— _No_ , _more than just a hunter_ , he thought again. Whatever it was, it was unwelcome. Al's mere presence had never enraptured an Alpha so completely before, which left him at a loss. _Is this how Mattie feels all the time_? _It's no wonder he's so anxious_. Al didn't want to break eye-contact with Ivan, like surrendering, but nor did he want to maintain this facade. Instead he let his eyes wander, surveying his surroundings in feigned boredom, acknowledging everything except Ivan himself.

                "So, _Just Ivan_ ," he said casually, "you're a Lone Wolf, aren't you?" He had deduced as much by observation: the Alpha had the defensive bearing of someone who had been alone for a long time. Al got the feeling Ivan was just as lost as he was in this situation, unused to guests. But if the Alpha understood the terminology— _Lone Wolf_ —he didn't show it. Al asked: "Are you a Westerner?" He, having never met a Westerner before, thought it a valid query, however, Ivan's response revealed deep offense.

                An ice-cold temper flared, showing teeth. " _Nyet_ ," he said with feeling. Al flinched, but recovered quickly. The Alpha swallowed, his body tense, and quietly added: "I'm not.

                "You should sleep," he ordered, closing the conversation. "You look pale, little one."

                _I doubt I look paler than you_ , Al thought scornfully. What he said was a lie: "I'm fine. I'm not tired. I've been sleeping for too long already, haven't I—?"

                "A week."

                " _A week_?" Al gaped in shock. He felt suddenly lightheaded. He had expected Ivan to report a day, or maybe two; not a week! "Oh, gods! My family—! They'll think I'm dead!"

                Ivan watched Al begin to pace frantically, dragging the pelt. A horrible, guilty feeling churned in his stomach. He felt hot, suddenly flushed as the colour returned to his cheeks. He tasted bile rise in his throat. Ivan said: "Are you going to be sick?" The words themselves prompted an immediate reaction. Al said, "No," even as his legs buckled and he fell onto his hands-and-knees, and was violently sick on the floor. His back arched, shoulders tensing as his whole body convulsed with the effort of retching. Sweat beaded his skin. He let go of the pelt and knelt naked on the floor, gagging and coughing and gasping. He would have collapsed if Ivan's big hands hadn't grabbed him. Instead, he was pulled back and held snug against the Alpha's chest. It was broad and hard. Al trembled. He let his head loll weakly back, finding a place to rest beneath Ivan's chin.

                Ivan said: "You shouldn't have eaten so fast. You shouldn't have left bed, little one." As he spoke, he lifted the Omega as if he was weightless.

                It felt like flying.

* * *

**LATER**

Al awoke feeling dizzy. Ivan said: "The next time you vomit, you're eating it for your next meal."

                Al blinked. "You're joking, right?"

                He honestly couldn't tell. Ivan's tone was stony, unenthused at playing housekeeper, but it masked a sinister smile. His violet eyes twinkled in the firelight, conveying a jest, or a promise—maybe? Al couldn't decipher it. And the Alpha's reply didn't help.

                "It's unwise to waste food," he said.

                Drowsily, Al accepted the hand Ivan offered him (Ivan's hand completely enveloped Al's) and was pulled into a sitting position. "Uh, thanks," he said, taking a bowl of plain potato porridge. It looked horrible. For a moment, Al wondered if the bowl really _did_ contain his harvested vomit.

                "Small bites," Ivan advised.

                Al ate slowly, cautious of his fickle digestion. He had been starving for too long. He needed to reintroduce his body to food slowly. The porridge was a good choice: it was hardy, but flavourless. Once Al got past the look, it didn't taste off-putting. In fact, it didn't taste like anything. Al paced himself, taking a small break after each bite to pummel Ivan with questions—"What's in this? Where did you learn to make it? Is this what you eat every day?"—all of which Ivan ignored. It didn't discourage Al from talking, though. He disliked silence. "I bet it would taste better with a little spice in it, and salt; it needs salt. Dad cooks with a lot of salt; Papa hates it. _Salt's not the only ingredient_! he says. I'm a pretty good cook, actually. Papa taught me. He taught me to care about presentation as much as flavour; says people eat more if they like the look of their food," he said, criticizing the porridge. "Papa's an _amazing_ cook! I guess it's kind of a weird talent for an Alpha, but nobody at home minds. My uncles—I live with my uncles—prefer Papa's cooking to Dad's most days. But Mattie's been doing most of the cooking at home since he was ten.  Mattie's my twin-brother. He was with me when the river took us. I hope—" Al's voice caught. Ivan glanced at him. "I hope he's okay wherever he is. As soon as I recover, I'm going to find him. He's not strong like me; he's delicate, timid. He won't survive long on his own. He needs me. But I know I'll find him. I'm a pretty good tracker, you know. Papa taught me how to hunt. Funny, isn't it? That Papa cooks and I hunt—? I guess we're not a very traditional family. But like I said, I'm a good hunter. I've been hunting since I was a pup. I'll find Mattie. I mean, I can't just leave him..."

                And so on and so forth.

                Al licked the bowl clean and, seconds later, found more porridge ladled in. The process repeated until after sunset. Al kept switching between eating and talking—never running short on topics—until finally his eyes began to droop. He lifted the spoon to his lips, but yawned instead.

                "Go to sleep."

                It was the first thing Ivan had said in hours.

                Al tried to refuse, but Ivan's blunt tone reprimanded him:

                "How are you going to find your brother if you don't recover?"

                "Oh, so you _were_ listening," Al teased, lying down. "And here I thought I was talking"—yawn—"to myself."

                Ivan cocked an eyebrow. Sternly, he said: "Go to sleep, little one."

                If Ivan intended to bully Al into sleep, it worked, but not because of his tone. Al was already half-asleep when he laid down, covering himself. He felt at-ease, belly full, and snuggled beneath a pile of heavy pelts. The fire crackled merrily, heating the cave. The wind blustered softly outside. Just then, nothing could have interrupted Al's comfort, not even Ivan. The truth was, Al was lost and alone, in the company of a stranger, but he felt the furthest thing from afraid. He felt safe.

* * *

Day-by-day, the routine continued. Ivan worked while Al slept, slowly recovering. The Alpha was diligent in his tasks, always busy. Half-asleep, Al watched Ivan's big, capable hands at work, letting the rhythmic, repeated gestures soothe his weariness. He memorized every detail of those long, big-knuckled fingers, every scar. _So many scars_. Al watched Ivan in secret, pretending to be asleep when the Alpha drew near. Al still talked, but since Ivan refused to engage the Omega, refused to answer his questions, he had eventually given up asking. Instead, he got to know Ivan wordlessly, piecing together the Alpha's character bit-by-bit. By observing the mundane tasks Ivan performed daily, Al learnt that he was not only a good hunter, but a good craftsman, as well. If something broke, Ivan could fix it; if something needed a solution, Ivan could invent one; if something threatened them, Ivan could defeat it. He worked quickly and quietly, barely speaking. Too used to solitude, he often ignored Al. Sometimes Al thought he forgot he was there at all. But for the first time in his life, Al didn't mind being ignored. It gave him the chance to study his reclusive rescuer on an intimate level without Ivan noticing. The Alpha never initiated conversation, and since that first interaction had never touched the Omega when Al was conscious. When Al was _un_ conscious—Well, that was different.

                The first time Al had pretended to be asleep, he had done it to avoid a confrontation with Ivan, and he hadn't been expecting Ivan to touch him. But when the Alpha's hand brushed his cheek, feather-soft, Al felt his stomach flip. It hadn't even been a fortnight yet since Arthur had last held him, but the moment Ivan touched him, Al realized how much he missed that physical contact. Instinctively he had leant into the Alpha's touch, which pulled away too soon. Since then, Al pretended to be asleep whenever Ivan got close, hoping that the Alpha would pay him attention as long as he thought Al was unaware of it. Al breathed softly and slowly when Ivan pressed a hand gently to his face, testing his temperature to gauge his health. It felt good. Despite Ivan's pretense for indifference, Al liked his touch. Somehow, it felt familiar. And yet, Al's Alpha family and friends rarely touched him so tenderly. Ivan's touch was so remarkably Omega-like in carefulness.

                _It's because he's a big_ , _tall Alpha_ , Al decided, thinking of the Isles. _Big Alphas are the gentlest with Omegas_ ( _except maybe_ _Uncle Scott_ ). _Alphas like Ivan have to know their own strength to prevent others from getting hurt. They have nothing to prove by being rough_.

                It was a couple of days before Al was shaken—gently—awake. By the time he roused, Ivan had gone, but a tub of steaming-hot water had been left for him to bathe. Al smiled sleepily and slowly got to his feet, hopping inelegantly. Outside, he could hear the sudden _chop-chop_ of an axe and knew that Ivan was close by. He had left to give Al privacy, but would not go far. _Maybe he thinks I'll drown_ , Al thought as he climbed into the wooden washtub. _Would he even care if I did_? The hot water stung the cuts and scrapes on his body—he hissed in pain as his left leg submerged—but it eased the tension in his muscles, and his body sank languidly beneath the surface. It felt good to relax, even if the tub was too small for Al's height: legs bent, his knees poking out of the water. Fleetingly, Al pictured Ivan stuffed into the small tub and chuckled. He scrubbed enthusiastically at his skin, colouring the water grey as mud flaked off to reveal ripe, purple bruises. The bruises were tender and his body ached, but it paled in comparison to how good it felt to be clean again. Al closed his eyes and rested his head on the tub edge, soaking himself in the—less clean, but still warm—water. Eventually, he fell asleep.

                "Get out before you catch your death," Ivan said, waking him.

                Al's eyes fluttered open. An instant later, he realized how cold the water had become.

                Covered in goose-bumps, he crawled clumsily out of the tub and accepted the clothes Ivan gave him—a faded shirt and trousers. The thick fabric felt heavy as Al tugged it on overhead. The big, wool shirt hung off his shoulders and the trousers were too long, but the fit was comfortable. It was warm and clean. The feeling of being engulfed was a good one, immersed in Ivan's strong scent. Hastily, Al buttoned the shirt to block out the cold, and pushed back his wet hair.

                "Come here," said Ivan, pointing to the bed. Sleepily, Al obeyed and sat down. Without a word, Ivan pushed Al's trouser-leg up to his knee and began unwinding the sodden bandage.

                "Is it broken?" Al asked, implying his leg. The pain had ebbed into a constant throb.

                "Yes, it is."

                Al's heart sank. He couldn't search for Matt with a broken leg. "Will it... heal?" he asked worriedly.

                Ivan worked deftly, inspecting the break below the knee. Al cringed, thankful that the bone had been reset, splinted, and bandaged while he was unconscious. Ivan re-dressed it and met Al's gaze. "Yes," he confirmed, "it will heal. But only if you stay off it."

                Al nodded in grudging promise. He pulled down his trouser-leg and crawled beneath the pelts and blankets, feeling contented— _clean_!—but cold. He shivered. Sighing deeply, he watched Ivan tidy his bath mess, acknowledging how domestic the Alpha suddenly seemed. _I guess he has to be_ , _living alone_.

                "Ivan? How old are you?" Al wondered why it had never occurred to him to ask before. Considering what he knew of Ivan, his size and skills, Al would have guessed early-to-mid twenties. He was shocked when Ivan said:

                "Eighteen."

                " _Huh_?" Al bolted upright, then cringed. "But that's only three years older than I am."

                "Yes."

                Al felt weirdly self-conscious as he laid back down. He watched Ivan for a minute longer before curiosity got the better of him. "How long have you been alone for?" he asked.

                Ivan didn't look at Al. He hefted the tub over his shoulder and was halfway to the cave's entrance before he answered: "Three years."

                "Is fifteen the age of maturity where you come from, too?"

                "Yes."

                "And where _is_ that?"

                Al knew that he had gone too far when Ivan stopped and gave him a stony look. It said: _Enough_ _questions._ Wordless, he stepped outside. Al heard him toss out the water.

                Al burrowed beneath the bed's pelts, burying his nose in Ivan's shirt. His retreat seemed to relax Ivan, who glanced fleetingly at the Omega when he returned. He settled down by the fireside and resumed a task, but Al's mind stayed active. He had a dozen questions that he wanted answers to: _Where did you come from_ , _Ivan_? _Why did you leave_? _Who were you before you became a Lone Wolf_? They were all questions that Al had been discouraged from asking, forcing him to accept that he would never get more than a cold stare in reply. Ivan was a secretive Alpha, but it no longer mattered. _It doesn't really matter who you were before I met you_ , Al acknowledged as he watched Ivan's skillful hands; the concentrated tilt of his lips; the quiet intensity in his violet eyes. _This is the only you I know. And I trust you._

                "It's been a long time since anyone trusted me," Ivan said when Al told him. "Are you sure you're not making a mistake, little one?"

                "Yes," Al replied, quite certain now. "You wouldn't have rescued me if you were going to hurt me."

                Ivan's violet gaze captured Al. His eyes were so like Matt's, so beautiful. Al found it hard to look away—so he didn't, despite the warning he saw there.

                "Maybe I _rescued_ you for my own purpose, my own pleasure." Ivan's deep, growling voice filled the cave. In a display of dominance, he rose, his lips curling back into a devious grin. It was wicked. He stalked to the bed and knelt, looming over Al. "Maybe I'm just waiting for you to regain your strength. I _am_ an Alpha, after all. A Rouge. What is it you called me, little one? _A Lone Wolf_." He growled. "And you're a young, unclaimed Omega." As he spoke, he leant down. Al felt hot breath on his cold skin. His body tensed instinctively, his heart-rate increasing, but he didn't flinch. He didn't pull back. Ivan's gaze narrowed, his silver-blonde head cocked, and he whispered:

                "Are you afraid now, _Alfred Kirkland_?"

                "No."

                It was Al's turn to grin.

                In a quiet, yet confident voice, he said: "I've spent my whole life with Alphas. You'll have to do better than a few empty threats if you want to frighten me, _Just Ivan_."

                Ivan smirked. In challenge or appreciation, Al didn't know.

                "I know how Alphas think," he said, letting his words linger; letting himself lean toward the growling Alpha. _I shouldn't provoke him_ , he thought briefly, but he liked the feel of having Ivan's full attention. It was intoxicating. "I can tell when an Alpha wants something, some _one_. I can tell by the lust in his eyes. It's possessive. It's instinctive. It's raw," he purred, watching Ivan's eyes momentarily flash. "It's the way they look at a conquest. It's the way they look at... my brother," he admitted. A degree of Al's confidence fled, but he soldiered on, hoping Ivan hadn't noticed. "I can tell when an Alpha wants an Omega by the look in his eyes," he said softly. "It's unlike the way you're looking at me now. You're trying to scare me, Ivan, but I won't be scared. Not until I see _that_ look in your eyes."

* * *

**LATER**

Ivan stared down at the Islander, who shivered in his sleep. He had never met an Omega who challenged an Alpha as openly as Al Kirkland did. But—to hear Al speak of it—he had been bred to it, spoiled, coddled, and undisciplined by his family. He was catered to, his bad habits indulged. And, worse, Al didn't seem to see anything wrong with it. He was proud, arrogant in the most unattractive way. Or, that's what Ivan tried to convince himself. Al was selfish. He ate and slept and let Ivan, _an Alpha_ , take care of him, which was shameful behaviour for an adult Omega. He had no respect for nature's hierarchy. He back-talked Ivan, disobeyed him, and pestered him with endless questions—always personal questions that Ivan didn't want to answer. _He's so annoying_! Ivan thought, wanting to wring his pretty neck. But every time he _did_ touch Al, it was gentle. It was careful. As he knelt to pull a blanket up over Al's bared shoulders, brushing the Omega's cold, soft skin, Ivan paused. _So annoying_ , he mused, touching his knuckles to Al's golden skin. _But so beautiful_.

                " _I won't be scared. Not until I see_ that _look in your eyes._ "

                Ivan pulled back. He looked away—then back. He could feel his heart beating in his chest.

                Al slept deeply, thick eyelashes quivering as he dreamt. Despite their being close in age, both young, Al's face was youthful in a way that Ivan's was not. His still had the softness of childhood, unlined by the burdens of adulthood; the scars of life. It was a nice-looking face, honest. Al slept with his full, shapely lips puckered. Ivan swallowed, licking his own. The Omega was picturesque to look upon: a masterpiece of vibrant colours and soft, supple planes. His figure was tall and lean, defined by delicious curves of athletic muscle, but it was not unscathed. Al had professed to be a hunter, a tracker, and looking upon his golden skin Ivan believed him. It was subtle: a scar here, a scrape there, the tiny imperfections that proved Al was mortal. It proved that he had been tested in a way few Omegas ever were and had been made stronger because of it. Absently Ivan bit his lip. His stomach tightened when he thought of Al's nudity, but the image was coloured by the Omega's disinclination for shyness. It made Ivan think: _How many other Alphas have seen you naked_? _How many Alphas have had the pleasure of seeing you_ , _touching you_? It made him suddenly, unjustly angry.

                " _It's the way they look at... my brother_ ," Al had said with a catch in his voice. It was the first time Ivan had ever heard the bite of insecurity in Al's tone; in his eyes.

                _Such beautiful blue eyes_.

                Those eyes harboured a ferocity that, for some unknown reason, made the Alpha's heartbeat increase and his temperature spike. When those fiery jewel-blues pierced him, Ivan felt his own fire rekindle in reply, reminding him of the warrior he had been—maybe still was. He felt the fight return to him tenfold, and it shocked him, knowing that it was an _Omega_ who inspired such a physical, carnal reaction in him. It made him feel possessive of the blue-eyed Islander, like rivals desperate to preserve and destroy each other.

                It was a small comfort thinking that no other Alpha had ever taken an interest in Al, and yet it only fueled Ivan's anger. He felt insulted on Al's behalf, defensive of Al's insecurity. The Omega talked often of his beloved twin-brother, enough for Ivan to envision a delicate, meek-mannered, helpless little thing in need of protecting. To Al, Matt embodied perfection, but to Ivan he sounded regular—less than regular. _Islanders must have a very different idea of beauty_ _and perfection_ , he thought. _Do they celebrate weakness_? The fact that proud, arrogant Al—who talked and talked and talked—never spoke of his own eligibility made Ivan think the Islander Alphas were mad not to favour Al. Granted, they might dislike Al's attitude, but not to favour his looks—? _They must all be blind._

                _Maybe it's because he's too thin_ , he considered. Al was attractive, but still much too skinny for his height. He had been starving when Ivan found him and hadn't yet fully recovered. It was subtle, but his cheekbones were still too sharp, his collarbone too defined, his hands a touch too bony—too weak. He hadn't yet regained his strength, but Ivan wasn't worried. _You'll recover_ , _and when you do—_ Then what? _You'll leave_. Al harboured an incredible will, the likes of which Ivan had never seen. Warriors lacked Al's level of devotion and determination, which was of Alpha-caliber—No, it was stronger. Al, a lone fifteen-year-old Omega, should have died in the forest.

                _Would you have_? Ivan wondered, mesmerized by the artistry of Al's face. _If I hadn't_ rescued _you_ , _would you have died_ , _little one_?

                _Isn't there anything you're afraid of_?

                "Don't be afraid," he whispered, contrary to his cold indifference. Careful of the Omega's injured leg, the big Alpha crawled into the bed beside him. Al was shivering. His wet hair gleamed in the firelight. Ivan rested his head on the corner of Al's pillow and admired the mosaic of colour, strands like threaded gold, bronze, and copper blending in a haphazard mess. As he drew himself closer, closing the distance between them, Ivan felt Al's lithe figure fit against his like two jigsaw pieces. It had been a long time since he had been so close to another living, breathing being, and it felt good. It reminded him of his humanity, the part of himself he was afraid he was losing to the wilderness. A minute later, Al was hugging Ivan's torso, unconsciously drawn to the Alpha's body-heat. Ivan let him. It had been his intent to keep Al warm, after all. _As much as you pretend otherwise_ , _you're still an Omega_. And Omegas didn't produce as much body-heat as Alphas did. Ivan smiled, happy to lend Al comfort. It made him feel useful. It had been a long time since anyone had needed him to take care of them. A long time since he had been anyone's protector and provider.

                _Would I have been a good provider if I hadn't of left_? _A good Alpha-mate_? _Would it have felt like this_?

                _Maybe_ , he thought, closing his eyes in contentment, _it wouldn't have been so bad._


	14. Lost Boys – Chapter Five

**WESTERN EMPIRE**

**THE BLACK FOREST**

Matt crouched down slowly, inch-by-inch, keeping his gaze focused. His prey was close: ten, maybe twelve feet away. He could hear it's soft paws hop quietly. Matt barely dared to breath. It's long ears were as sensitive, if not more so, than his. He hid in the long, waxy grass; it grazed him like a teasing razor, producing a soft hiss. He swallowed. He stayed low. Thick, black tree roots spread over the undulating ground like spider legs. He crept ever closer, balancing on his haunches, inch-by-inch so as not to make a sound. He arched his back, his shoulders leaning slightly forward like a wildcat about to pounce—like a hunter. He inhaled, held it in his lungs, and let it out slowly. His prey paused, its ears perked, then went back to nosing the underbrush. Absently, Matt licked his lips. _Close_ , _so close._ Just then, his stomach growled. Again his prey's head snapped up, nose twitching. Matt froze, held his breath. _Don't run. Don't run. Don't run_ —

                The jack-rabbit took off like an arrow.

                _Fuck_.

                Matt leapt up and dashed after it. The paper-thin leaves sliced his skin. He chased after the rabbit, crashing clumsily through the forest, dodging trees, ducking branches, and leaping over a decaying log. _Gods_ , _no_! _Come back here you little_ — _Shit_! The terrain shifted, dropping suddenly into a shallow ditch. Matt slipped, produced a shameful noise as his arms wind-milled for balance, then caught his footing and kept going. _I'm not letting you escape_ , _not this time_!

                Matt was hungry. It had been five days since the Rhine had spit him out in this dense, dark forest. Five days that he had been wandering, directionless, lost and alone; frightened. The first day had been the worst. The forest was filled with foreign scents and sounds that kept Matt tense, forever on alert. He searched for an escape, following the river in both directions, accidentally going in circles. _Which way_? he wondered, standing at the riverbank in panic. He looked left-to-right, but, unschooled in tracking, all he saw were the same indistinguishable sights. _Al would know_ , he thought, looking from the muddy earth to the starry sky. _Al would look at the soil_ , _the current_ , _the sky and he would know which way to go._ But Matt had spent his childhood indoors, protected by walls. He had spent his time learning to keep-house, to _mother_ a family. While Al had been exploring the outdoors, Matt had stayed inside reading away his afternoons by the library hearth. _I know how to do this stuff_ , he had thought, _in theory_. Putting theories into practise, however, had turned out to be much harder than anticipated. When Matt's hunger had finally become unbearable, he had foraged for food, confident in his knowledge of botany, but even then it was hard to tell what was edible and what was not. The black forest was completely unknown to him and Matt was cautious by nature. He ate uncooked greens, which barely sated his hunger and did not satisfy his tastes. He wanted meat. He had watched his Alpha-relatives for years, hunting. He had watched Al learn to hunt as a young pup. His blue-eyed twin had learnt to shoot birds from the treetops with a slingshot; he had learnt to entrap small rodents in snares; he had learnt to pounce like a wolf-cub and catch small prey. Al had been eight-years-old when he had learnt the technique of hunting. Matt was fifteen.

                _How hard could it be_?

                "GAH!"

                Matt's foot caught on an upraised root and he fell face-first to the ground.

* * *

Gil stalked swiftly through the Black Forest, moving like a shadow. His footfalls were light, soft for an Alpha, and his equipment—his weapons—were encased in supple leather, mute. His pride was in his prowling, so much quieter than the average Alpha; so much _faster._ He had learnt the technique young, self-taught. Vater's nod of approval had been the very best reward. Gil's long runner's body twisted around tree branches, passing within a hair's width. He moved habitually, his keen gaze studying his surroundings in search of abnormalities. A footprint. A broken branch. A bead of blood clinging to a blade of grass. He knelt. He knew this forest as well as he knew his own name. He knew when something—some _one_ —did not belong.

                Gil followed the scent, raising his head, sifting past the earthy scents of the dense forest. It didn't take long. Gil's nose was exceptionally sensitive, but even if it wasn't the intruder's scent was unmistakeable. It smelled of sweat and blood-sugar, a stranger, _but_ _I've never smelled anyone so_ sweet _before. That's not an Alpha scent_. Gil inhaled the pale, sweet scent. It was easy to track. His nose made him a good hunter, a good tracker. As a pup, his friends used to tease that Gil would make some Omega a good _guard-dog_ someday. But Gil had turned from that path years ago and he hadn't seen those friends since. He shook his head, focused on his task. _That's an Omega scent_ , he acknowledged, recognizing it vaguely. It had been a long time since he had seen or smelled an Omega. Omegas were not allowed in the fort. _That's a young Omega-male_. _Fifteen_ , _unclaimed. Foolish_. The Omega was downwind, easily tracked by any Alpha. _What's an Omega doing so deep in the forest all alone_? _The Black Forest is dangerous_ , _forbidden_ —restricted to the military. _How many times must we tell civilians to stay the fuck away from the borderlands_? Except that this Omega didn't smell like a civilian of the Western Empire. As Gil stalked closer, the scent of the Omega's sugary blood became more distinct. It had a subtle, foreign flavour, but it was not altogether unfamiliar. Gil was afraid that he knew that bloodline.

                _A Southerner_? he wondered; worried. _In that case_ , _I'll have to_ —

                "GAH!"

                The Omega's high-pitched cry broke the silence.

                Gil rushed to his aid, and then stopped abruptly at the edge of a ditch. _That was stupid_ , he realized, confused by his reaction. _He could be a decoy_. _It could be an ambush_ , he thought like a soldier. _If he's a Southern spy_ , _he could be luring me into a trap. He could be_ —

                Gil's suspicions quieted as he stared at the Omega. He stayed hidden behind a grove of spindly, black-barked trees, overlooking the dry ditch. The Omega was just a little thing, average-height for a Western Omega, but slighter than most. He was young, fifteen. Gil was too far to see details, but he looked _delicate_. He stretched his slender limbs, covered in tattered clothes that left a generous portion of smooth, pale—bruised; scratched—skin bared. It revealed a shoulder, a sliver of stomach, and both long, shapely legs, one of which was trapped. The Omega struggled. He tried to rise, then fell back on his knees, his ankle ensnared by a tangle of roots. _I should help him_ , Gil thought for a moment, then remembered: _No_ , _he could be an enemy_. As if on-cue, the Omega muttered:

                " _Merde_!"

                _French_ , Gil knew. It confirmed his suspicion: _A Southerner_. _Fuck_.

                Gil's French was incomplete. It wasn't a language he enjoyed studying. (He didn't enjoy studying, period, but French was his worst.) His French was mostly limited to military jargon, not awful, but not fluent enough to decipher the slew of soft grumblings that poured from the Omega's mouth. Gil's lips curled into a curious grin in reply. He kept quiet, watching in amusement as the Omega twisted and tugged at the roots. Gil swallowed a lump in his throat. He wanted to help the Omega. He looked so pitiful. _But if he's a decoy_ —

                Gil exhaled.

                The Omega's head snapped up, like a spooked jack-rabbit.

                Gil tensed. _He didn't hear that_ , _did he_? _No_ , _he couldn't have. It's impossible_.

                He stayed hidden as the Omega scanned the forest. His body was rigid. When his eyes landed on Gil's grove, the Alpha fought the urge to exhale again in disbelief. It was the first time that the Omega had lifted his head in Gil's presence, and he was suddenly struck by how beautiful the Omega was. He stared in Gil's direction, violet eyes wide in fear, lips parted. Gil stared back, winded, not daring to breath. He hadn't seen such an attractive Omega since— _ever_.

                _Maybe I've been at the fort for too long._

                Finally, the Omega looked away. He seemed to accept that he was safe—or, alone at least—and resumed his task, albeit more urgently. With a great tug, he pulled his leg free. " _Aah-roo_!" he yelped.

                Like before, Gil moved in reflex. He moved fast, too fast. Too sudden. _Oops_.

                As soon as the Omega spotted the Alpha, he leapt to his feet and ran.

* * *

Captain!" A low howl pierced the forest. "Captain Beilschmidt!"

                Gil slowed to a jog, then a walk. He let his pack—an eight-Alpha scouting party—catch up. One of the officers launched immediately into a full report, but Gil was barely listening. He was distracted by the Omega's scent, heading in a south-west direction, rapidly fading. He scanned the dense forest as his comrade spoke, silently berating his own stupidity. _He's run back to his pack_ , _a spy_. Yet the Omega had looked fearful, as if he wasn't only running away from Gil. Omegas were generally less brave and less aggressive than Alphas, but this one seemed more timid than most. _I frightened him_ , he knew, feeling strangely guilty. _He was so young_ , _so lost-looking. Could he really be an agent of the South_? _Maybe he really_ is _alone_ —

                "—traces of Southerners in the forest," said the officer. "A reconnaissance party, at least a dozen strong."

                Inwardly, Gil groaned. _Or_ , _maybe not._

He clucked his tongue, annoyed. "Spread-out and find them. Send word back to the fort. I want them flushed out of the Black Forest, that's an order. Signal if you find anything, or," he thought of the Omega, "anyone."

                "Yes, sir!" said eight Alphas in union. Then they dispersed, leaving Gil alone again.

                _Southerners in the forest_ , _that's just fucking perfect_ , he thought, frustrated.

                Intelligence from his scouts had reported as much, but Gil had hoped they were wrong. _My Alphas are never wrong_ , he ceded. He had trained every one of them himself. But it was bad news, enemies in the forest. It meant that the Southern Empire was getting closer, taking liberties, pushing further into the Black Forest, intending to annex the West's territory, _like the Easterners did seven years ago_ —

                Gil shook his head. Now wasn't the time to dwell on old losses; old scars. He had a job to do, a responsibility to the Western Empire to guard it against a Southern invasion; a responsibility to kill or capture _anyone_ who crossed that border. It had been two years since Gil's promotion to Fort Commander—he was the youngest Commander in the fort's history—and since then he had managed to keep a full Southern invasion at bay, limiting engagements to petty skirmishes and scouting missions, but for how much longer? His Alphas couldn't hold the border forever, not at this rate. The Southerners were getting bolder, sneaking further inland, _preparing for something_ , Gil thought. _If they ever discover how few our numbers really are_ , _we'll be in trouble_. So far, Gil and his Alphas had done a good job of hiding their feeble numbers by creating the illusion of a fully-equipped fort filled to capacity with merciless soldiers ready to brutally slaughter enemies with machine-like efficiency—hey, scare tactics worked—but the truth was that the fort was under-equipped, under-supplied, and under-manned. If the Southerners laid siege, the fort would only last a month.

                _That's why we have to keep them away_ , _as far from the fort and the truth as possible. If they ever discover how weak we really are_ , _we're all dead. All of my Alphas_ , _dead. That's why I need to strike first. I have a job to do_ :

"Protect the Empire," he whispered habitually.

                No Southerner could be allowed to live.

                _No one._

* * *

Matt doubled-over, hands braced on his knees. He was panting hard, his heart pounding. His legs felt like jelly. _I think I'm safe_. He scanned the forest, the shadows. _I don't think he followed me_.

                Sighing in relief, he leant against a tree. Only then did he consider what had happened.

                For five days he had searched for traces of civilization in the forest, of humanity. Then, he had hoped to find someone who could help him, or at least point him in the right direction. Five days ago, he would have been thrilled by the appearance of _anyone_ , if just to prove he wasn't alone. Matt had never been alone before. He had always been surrounded—protected—by his family. In fact, he suspected that he had been coddled more than the average Omega. His Alpha-relatives especially worried about his safety. Only Arthur was lax. He trusted Matt's judgement and liked to encourage he and Al to explore, though Matt rarely did. Every time he had been about to head off alone, one of his Alpha-relatives always appeared:

                "Are you going to the river, honey? I'll go with you."

                "Are you going into the village, sweetheart? I'll go with you."

                "Let me escort you, _chéri_."

                "Wait for me, Mattie!"

                Do you want my help? I'll go with you. I'll carry that. I'll guard you. I'll protect you. I won't let you go alone.

                Matt sighed. _I never thought I'd miss that_ , he thought, saddened. _Now_ , _I'd give anything for one of them to be here with me_.

                Eventually, he had given up hope of seeing anyone in the black forest. _So_ —when he had seen that red-eyed Alpha— _why did I run_?

                He knew why, because he was afraid. He had not been expecting to see the Alpha. A tall, mean-looking Alpha clad in black-and-white clothes, armed, and intimidating. He had startled Matt. The Alpha had looked like a big white wolf on the hunt, standing on the high-ground and looking down on helpless Matt. His lithe body had moved fluidly, so sudden: sharp and _very_ fast. In reflex, Matt had ran, fearing that the Alpha would catch him. But he didn't. _I don't think he's even chasing me_ , Matt had realized, but he kept running. He didn't want to take any chances of—

                _What_ , _being found_ —? _But isn't that what I want_? _Isn't that what I need_?

                "Fuck," he cursed aloud. "I should go back and try to find him."

                Perhaps the Alpha knew the forest and could help him. But Matt didn't move. He stayed rooted to the spot with his back braced against the tree trunk. Lost or not, he couldn't deny that the red-eyed Alpha had frightened him.

                "I'm such a bloody coward—"

                In proof, Matt flinched.

                Footsteps crunched on dry foliage, unheeded by the owner. It was faint, but drawing nearer with the hurried pace of a light-footed Alpha. Matt's instinct was to flee, but he fought it. He balled his hands into tight fists and waited anxiously, willing bravery to envelope him. It failed. He felt his heart beating fast in his chest. _Don't be afraid_ , he tried to calm himself. _It's just an Alpha_ , _just a—stranger_. He swallowed. The noise grew in volume, boot-heels falling upon packed earth. Matt pressed his back against the tree, taking comfort in its solidity. When the Alpha's figure emerged on the rise, jogging swiftly, Matt's mouth went dry. _I could just stay here silently and let him pass by._ _He hasn't seen me yet. He doesn't have to_. _Do I really_ need _his help_?

                _Yes._

Matt called-out to the Alpha. Nervous, it came out in French.

                The Alpha leapt gracefully off the rise and landed ten feet from Matt, a rich blue cloak billowing behind him. As he rose to his full height, Matt realized that it was not the young red-eyed Alpha he had met before, but a blue-eyed Alpha of a like-age with his parents. He cocked his head, surveying the anxious Omega from head-to-toe before he met Matt's gaze. A self-satisfied grin revealed approval as he sauntered forward.

                "Hello," he said in French, then added: "My dear."

                Matt felt his stomach twist. He struggled to produce words: "I-I—"

                The Alpha stopped a few feet away, just out of striking-range. "It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you, darling."

                Matt's cheeks reddened in shame. "I'm sorry, I—" The blue-eyed Alpha smiled, kinder than the red-eyed wolf he had seen before. "I'm lost," he said softly. "I'm not supposed to be here."

                "No," the Alpha agreed, "you're not. You're on the wrong side of the border to be speaking French. So am I," he grinned, revealing a shred of wicked pleasure. "Tell me, sweetheart, where have you come from? Where," he took a step forward, "is your family?"

                Matt shrank back. He felt a knot of bark dig into his back, but he didn't care. The Alpha's slow advance made him feel claustrophobic. His temperature rose and his chest tightened. A wave of dizziness crashed over him before it passed. _It's okay_ , _don't panic_. But the Alpha was too close now. Even if Matt sprinted, the tree blocked his escape. The Alpha would grab him before he could take a single step. _Just calm down_ , _he hasn't even threatened you_ , he thought logically, though there was something worrying in the Alpha's proximity, his smile. _Ask for directions_.

                "I'm lost," he repeated meekly. "I need to return to the Low Countries. I got separated from my family, they'll be worried about me, and I— _What are you doing_?"

                The Alpha reached out. "I'm not going to hurt you," he repeated, chuckling. "I just want a better look at your pretty face."

                He took Matt's chin in a half-gloved hand and lifted his head. Matt lowered his eyes, trying not to flinch. A callused thumb rubbed his cheek; the nail scratched. He studied Matt's face for a long time, too long, but Matt was too afraid to break the contact. The Alpha's proximity had revealed a wicked-looking sword. Matt's lowered gaze saw the insignia stitched to his tunic, a black fleur-de-lis.

                _That's a sigil of the South_ , he knew. _He's of the French clans_ , _the north-west of the Southern Empire. Papa's birthplace._

                " _It's not possible_ ," the Alpha exhaled in awe.

                His voice drew Matt's attention. His gaze was fixed on Matt's face, staring in disbelief. He shook his head.

                "You're quite a beauty, aren't you, my dear? Let me guess, you must be... fifteen?"

                Matt didn't reply.

                The Alpha released him, but didn't retreat. He stayed close, nearly chest-to-chest, blocking Matt's path.

                "Yes," he continued, "fifteen would be about right. Forgive me for staring, darling, but, you see, you just look _so much_ like your Papa."

                Dread filled Matt. "I-I—I don't know what you're talking about," he lied.

                "Oh, sweetheart," the Alpha chuckled. There was a bite to it. Gently, he grasped Matt's bicep. "I would know the blood of Francis Bonnefoi anywhere. I have no doubt that you're his pup. Even if you didn't look _so_ alike him, you have his scent. It's been such a long time since I've smelled it, _him_ , but I'm not mistaken. Gods, fifteen years!" His grip tightened. "I thought he was dead."

                "Please, let go," said Matt softly. He was trembling now.

                The Alpha ignored his plea.

                "He's _supposed_ to be dead," he growled. His eye-teeth flashed. "I saw him shot with an arrow-bolt, I saw him fall into the Channel. He was always so arrogant, so vain, so entitled." As he spoke, he squeezed Matt's bicep, bruising it, and leant closer. Matt could feel his body-heat, his sweat. "The day he was chased off, the day he ran for his life, I was there. I saw it. I saw him helpless like he had never been before. _Pathetic_ ," he spat cruelly. _"_ He had nowhere to go but into the Channel to drown himself. He deserved it. But I guess he survived, after all." The Alpha was so close now. His nose brushed Matt's nose; his lips hovered inches from Matt's trembling lips.

                "Let me go," Matt whispered. He could feel the Alpha's hot breath. "Please, I'm not supposed to be here—"

                "No, you're not. Francis should have died. You shouldn't have been born at all. Tell me, my dear," he said as he pinned Matt to the tree, shoving a knee between the Omega's legs, "where _did_ he take refuge? Was it the Isles? Was it in some Islander bitch that he sunk his cock?" He jerked Matt, growing eager. He grabbed a handful of the Omega's curls and pressed his nose to the column of Matt's neck. He inhaled deeply. "I've never smelled an Islander before."

                "Let g-go of me, _p-please_!" Matt begged.

                The Alpha grinned. "I've never _tasted_ an Islander before."

* * *

Gil stayed hidden. Having tracked the Omega's scent, he watched as he met with a Southern soldier.

                _Fuck_ , _I was right_ , he thought, disappointed. _He is a spy_.

                Gil watched as the other Alpha advanced on the Omega, a swagger in his step. It looked like a prowl, a hunt. He was middle-aged—thirty—but his body was virile and smelled strongly of sweat and salt and arousal. A growl like a purr reverberated in the back of his throat. The Omega bowed his head. _Are they_ —? Gil's stomach clenched as the Alpha reached out and touched the Omega's face. _Are they mates_? _No_ , _the Omega is unmated. I'm certain of it._ He inched closer, eyes searching for a sign of ownership, a mark or gift. _Ah_ , _there_. On his middle-finger, the Omega wore a gold band. _Claimed_ , _but not yet mated. This Alpha must be his intended mate then. He wouldn't be pawing at the Omega like that otherwise_. Gil wrinkled his nose and the corner of his lip twitched, lifting in a half-snarl. Behind his lips, his teeth were clenched.

                He shook his head.

                He hadn't realized how stiff he was, shoulders arched, fists clenched tightly.

                _Stupid_! he chastised in self-discipline. _Focus on what they're saying_ , _not on what they're doing_. _Are they planning an attack_?

                The Alpha's voice was thick, like honey. He spoke huskily of the Omega's Alpha-father. Gil frowned. _That's kind of a weird topic_ , he thought, considering how flirtatious the Alpha's body-language was. _If I was trying to sweet-talk an Omega_ , _I sure as fuck wouldn't bring up his parents._ Nor did the Omega seem receptive to it. He kept his head bowed, wind-tossed curls shielding his face from view. But his posture was tense, back pressed against the tree trunk. And his scent—Gil inhaled. _He's scared. Maybe I'm wrong and they're_ not _intended mates_ —? Gil had known lots of Omegas to be nervous of their Alpha-mates, especially those couples who were arranged by the parents; it wasn't uncommon. _But that's not jitters_ , _that's blatant fear_ , Gil knew. Absently, he touched the pommel of his sword. That's when he heard a name. And he froze.

                Francis Bonnefoi.

                _Oh_ , _fuck._ The Omega's fear was suddenly justified. _If that really is Bonnefoi's pup_ , _he's in serious danger_.

"I've never _tasted_ an Islander before," growled the Alpha seductively.

                He shoved the Omega to his knees. The little thing tried to crawl away, but the Alpha descended upon him like a predator, pressing his weight down on the Omega's back to prevent him from escape. Fisting a chunk of pale-blonde hair, the Alpha jerked the Omega's head back, producing a cry. " _Let go_!" he shrieked. " _Let me go_!" He clawed desperately at his assailant, but it was futile. He was in no position to fight, his reach was too short. He battered at the Alpha's tunic harmlessly. The Alpha licked his lips hungrily, bright blue eyes alight, unhindered by the Omega's pitiful struggles. He was stronger and he knew it. He pushed the blonde's head down as he anchored himself at the Omega's hips, fumbling with his belt-buckle as he positioned himself at the Omega's backside—

                " _Gra-aah_!"

                The Alpha threw his head back in pain. He dove sideways to avoid Gil's blade, clutching his sliced bicep as he drew his own sword in defense.

                Gil stood between he and the trembling Omega, eyes ablaze. A feral growl—a battle-cry—tore from his throat. The Southerner paused, reconsidering attack; the Omega whined softly. Gil saw him stagger to his feet and take off at a dead-run, set on self-preservation. _Good. Get away from here_ , _it's not safe_. _I don't want you to see what I'm about to do._ His burning red-eyed gaze swung back to his enemy, daring him to chase the Omega.

                "I know who you are, _Captain_ ," the Southerner spat in French, lips wet with saliva.

                "Do you know _where_ you are?" Gil countered. He whipped his sword in a small arch, testing it; readying. "I'll give you a hint," he said. Then leapt. The Southerner parried the blow, but it threw him off-balance. He stepped back in retreat, dodging and swiping; too slow. Gil's sword-point bit deep, but he didn't stop. He was angry. He pounded the Southerner with ceaseless blows. So _very_ angry. "You're on the wrong side of the fucking border!" he snarled. He bared his teeth. He felt powerful, fueled by a deep, dark desire to thrash the Southerner in retribution. He blocked a blow and, before the other could react, Gil's fist flew out lightning-fast and struck him hard in the face. His knuckles returned bloody. The Southerner staggered.

                "You're going to regret coming here," Gil threatened.

                Then he threw his head back and loosed a loud, long piercing howl that carried over the treetops, calling forth his comrades.

* * *

Matt heard the loud, long piercing howl, but he didn't slow. It chased him. He ran faster. He had never been so afraid in his entire life. Not even the flood had scared him as badly as that blue-eyed Alpha's intent. A whine, a sob, tore past his lips at the mere thought. Tears flooded his eyes. His whole body was trembling. _Is this a panic-attack_? He gasped, running faster. He didn't know where he was headed or in which direction, but he didn't care. It had been a mistake to seek out others. He should have trusted his instincts and hidden, he shouldn't have let an Alpha get close enough to—

                Matt faltered, tripped. He pressed a hand to his mouth as he staggered, half-blinded by tears.

                _I'm such a fucking fool_! He felt so ashamed. _I almost got myself_ —

                " _Oof_ —!"

                Matt hit something—some _one_ —and fell back. Strong hands grabbed his forearm, holding fast, reeling him in as he fought. When he saw the fleur-de-lis, he screamed.

                A party of Southerners, at least a dozen, swam before Matt's compromised vision as he twisted. He saw grins, revealing teeth. He heard jeers and laughter.

                "Hey, look what I've caught! A little Western bitch."

                "Give him here! It's been too long since I've touched an Omega. I want to feel him."

                "Quit drooling, you'll get a turn."

                "Me first!"

                Matt screamed; they laughed. But it was short-lived. Someone shouted: "Westerners!" and soon the forest had become a battleground. Matt was discarded. He fell to his knees, chest convulsing in panic. The black forest sang with the echoes of steel-on-steel: _Clang_! _Clang_! _Swish—sha-ring_! _Clang_! A near-equal number of Alphas attacked in a fury, not with teeth and fists, like Islanders, but with swords. The Westerners' swords were long, heavy, and straight. The Southerners' swords were shorter, stouter, and tapered. They clanged together, then ripped apart. It was loud and chaotic; it hurt Matt's ears. He ducked a misaimed blow and crawled, trying to escape the fray, but he was encircled by black-and-white bodies fighting royal-blue.

                " _Someone grab the Omega_!" the blue-eyed Southerner's breathless voice cut the din.

                Matt bolted to the left, then stopped. A steep, mossy cliff rose before him; a ninety-degree angle. He cried out in frustration as he tried and failed to climb the rock, scraping his fingers, desperate for escape.

                _No_ , _no_ , _no—_! _Why is this happening to me_? _I just want to go home_!

                Matt was sobbing by the time an Alpha pulled him roughly back. He held Matt by the throat. His hand nearly encircled the Omega's delicate neck.

                " _STOP_!" shouted the red-eyed Alpha.

                The order was repeated by Matt's captor in French. He barked loudly at his Alphas, who quieted. He was the eldest, entitled; Matt could hear it in his gravelly voice. He was twice the age of his red-eyed counterpart, though they seemed to share the same rank, both leaders. He said: "Captain Beilschmidt," and nodded with mock-cordiality.

                "Captain Le Roux," replied the red-eyed Alpha, panting.

                "Captain Le Roux, that Omega-pup is the blood of Francis Bonnefoi!" shouted the blue-eyed Southerner.

                Matt flinched at the collective gasp that erupted from the Southerners and Westerners alike. In outrage, the news produced a swell of voices, arguing and talking over each other; snapping at each other; begging questions to be answered. A low whistle sounded from someone at the back. A threat was issued from someone else. Finally, both of the captains called for silence. Le Roux yelled; Beilschmidt raised a hand. In that moment, Matt felt every pair of eyes rest solely on him.

                "Bonnefoi's pup?" said Captain Le Roux ruminatively. "I believe you're right."

                "Captain Le Roux," Captain Beilschmidt interrupted sternly. In thickly-accented French, he said: "You are trespassing on the Western territory—"

                "And you are harbouring the Omega-pup of a wanted Alpha," Captain Le Roux countered. In example, he flipped a pale-blonde curl. "Let's call it even, shall we, Beilschmidt-pup? We'll take the Omega with us and leave the Black Forest. No blood-shed today, deal?"

                " _Nein_!" Captain Beilschmidt snarled. It startled several Alphas. "He is no belonging to you."

                Captain Le Roux chuckled at the other's word-choice. "Bonnefoi was a Southerner. He _does_ belong to us by blood-law."

                Captain Beilschmidt hesitated for a fraction of a second and then impulsively said: "He is belonging to me by mating-law."

                Matt nearly whined in protest, but the captain's piercing red gaze warned him not to.

                Captain Le Roux clucked his tongue skeptically. "You're lying," he said, but his stony voice revealed doubt. "I know the scent of a mated Omega, Beilschmidt, and this pup"—he jostled Matt—"hasn't been mated. I'm not the only one here who can smell how innocent and unspoiled he is, am I—?"

                His Southern Alphas murmured in agreement, one snickered.

                "You're a liar, Beilschmidt-pup. He's not your mate."

                "Not now, but soon. I have claimed him by me. Look there, on his finger." He gestured. "That is a gift. He is _mein_ to be, uh— _mein_ for to be, uh— _mein_ soon-to-be—"

                "Intended," supplied a Westerner helpfully.

                " _Ja_ , _danke_ ," said Captain Beilschmidt, then to Le Roux: "He is _mein_ intended mate."

                Le Roux cocked a greying eyebrow, unimpressed; unconvinced. Stiffly, he grabbed Matt's hand and lifted it to eye-level, inspecting the gold band. Matt held his breath, trying not to let the lie show. But Le Roux wasn't looking at him; he was looking at the red-eyed captain. "This isn't your Alpha-father's crest, Beilschmidt-pup." His voice was suspicious. "His is the Black Cross."

                "The _Iron_ Cross," Captain Beilschmidt corrected, irked. " _Nein_ , it is no belonging to _mein_ Alpha-father. It is belonging to _mein_ Omega-father. It is an, uh, pass-down—?" He glanced hopefully at his comrade, who shrugged in apology.

                "Heirloom," said Captain Le Roux impatiently. He scoffed, showing disdain for the ring's craftsmanship. (It was lucky that he couldn't tell the difference between German and Dutch.) "I don't believe you, Beilschmidt-pup. The Omega"—again he jostled Matt—"doesn't have a lick of your scent on him."

                " _Nein_ , of course," said Captain Beilschmidt, adopting an indignant tone. "Here of the West, we do not maul our intended mates."

                A few of the Westerners—those who understood French—chuckled.

                "But," he continued, presenting a gamble, "it is the word of you against _mein_ , Le Roux. You do not believe me? Then risk it. Go now, take _mein_ Omega-mate and be crushed by the full force of the Black Forest Fort in lawful retribution. He is belonging to the West now. And we of the West are protective of our kin."

                "He's got Southern blood—"

                "He is having Island blood, too!" Captain Beilschmidt snapped. "Can you no smell it? He is being an Islander by his Omega-father. And he is being _mein_ by claiming. He is no straggler for you to have. _He is mine_!"

                "We'll see."

                Captain Le Roux shoved Matt roughly into Captain Beilschmidt's arms.

                "I know your Western laws, Beilschmidt-pup," he threatened. "Fort Commanders such as yourself can't take Omega-mates. I know _you're lying to me_ ," he emphasized in displeasure. "And I'll prove it. I'll be back in twenty-four hours with more than a scouting-party at my back. If Bonnefoi's pup hasn't been mated by then, or if you fail to let us see him in proof, the South will attack and I'll take him by force. And I'll be well within my rights to do so. No mating-law can protect an Omega who _isn't mated_. That pup"—he pointed at Matt—"shouldn't have ever been born. Now his blood will pay for the crimes of his Sire, I'll make sure of it.

                "Twenty-four hours, Beilschmidt-pup. Then he's mine."

* * *

Gil held his defensive posture until the Southerners left, then he sighed in relief. He let his body relax, hoping that the Omega hadn't felt his rapid heartbeat. _That was too close_ , he acknowledged. Gil was lucky that Captain Le Roux was a cautious leader, law-abiding by nature. He liked to have the facts before acting. _He knows that I'm lying_ , _but he can't prove it—not yet. Twenty-four hours_ , he had said. _Beilschmidt-pup_. Gil frowned. He despised Le Roux's derogatory nickname, as if Gil was a swaddling-pup; as if he wasn't an adult Alpha, twenty-years-old ( _almost twenty-one_!); as if they didn't hold the same rank in their respective armies. Just then, the Omega pushed at Gil's locked arms, trying to get free. _Oh_ , _right_. He hadn't noticed him wriggling, too preoccupied. He just fit so _well_ in Gil's arms. The top of his head barely reached the Alpha's chin. If Gil tipped his head sideways, he could rest it easily—

                _Ahem_.

                The Omega ducked out of arm's reach when Gil let go. Despite the dead-end, he retreated to the mossy cliff. Gil supposed he felt safer with a rock-wall at his back. His posture was tense, his violet eyes blazing, shiny with tears, but he didn't run, which Gil was grateful for. He must have realized his predicament, hopelessly trapped between Gil and Captain Le Roux. He watched Gil and his Alphas, making eye-contact with no one. He didn't speak.

                _I wonder if he speaks German_?

                "Uh, Captain—?"

                Gil nodded at the officer, permitting him to speak. His eight Alphas, he noticed, were all staring between he and the violet-eyed Omega expectantly.

                "He's very pretty, Captain," the officer acknowledged, "but Le Roux is right, the Fort Commander can't take an Omega-mate. It's illegal in the West, easily disproved. Why did you lie? Do you, uh, know that Omega, Captain?"

                "No, I... I'll explain later," he said in avoidance. He received several unsatisfied frowns in return. "Let's call today a victory," he continued, standing straighter. "The Southerners have left the Black Forest without a fight, we've done our job."

                "But it won't take Le Roux long to return, and when he does it'll be with his entire company. With respect, Captain, if we take that Omega back to the fort, we're inviting a siege."

                "Leave the Omega," someone suggested.

                "Or, mate him," said another. "Le Roux said he only had to be mated—"

                "It's illegal."

                "For the Fort Commander, yes. Not for us. I'll volunteer— _Ach_!"

                Gil's long, strong fingers dug relentlessly into his junior's neck, squeezing. A deep, angry growl rumbled from his throat in threat. The joker cowered in submission; in apology. Gil released him with a shove. Deliberately, he eyed the scouting-party, intending to make it _very_ clear: "The Omega is under _my_ protection. No one is to touch him."

                "Yes, sir!"

                "Good. Now return to the fort," he ordered. Like machines, they obeyed.

                He turned and faced the Omega, who flinched. "It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you," Gil said, stalking over. In reply, the Omega reversed until his back met the rock. Gil slowed, then stopped. The Omega's big violet eyes were wide and raw from crying. Gil could see them properly now. They sparkled like precious-stone, framed by long, pale lashes that brushed his white skin. It was freckle-less, blemish-less except for a red cut on his cheekbone, the same shade of red as his lips. Matted curls hung in a mess about his face. His garments were tattered, barely there. (He had torn his clothes to make cloth-bandages for minor injuries, Gil noticed. It made him wonder how long the Omega had been alone in the forest.) Shoeless, his feet were filthy and cut. He looked like a castaway, cold and hungry, and yet—he was incomparably beautiful.

                _Is there anywhere you're truly safe_? he wondered. He didn't envy the Omega's family. _It must be a full-time job guarding you_.

                " _Who are you_?" the Omega asked suddenly in French.

                Gil cleared his throat. " _Uh_ , _my French no good_ ," he said painstakingly. "Do you speak German?"

                The Omega blinked obliviously.

                "No? Dutch, then? _Do you speak Dutch_? _Or_ , _Danish_?" _Please not fucking Danish_. (Gil's Danish vocabulary was limited to profanity and racial-slurs.) "Uh, okay... Is French the only language you speak? Oh!" He snapped his fingers, struck by the obvious. "You're an Islander, yes? So, English—? _Do you speak English_?"

                _Please not Gaelic. Please not Welsh._

                " _Yes_ , _I speak English_ ," the Omega said softly.

* * *

The Alpha's body relaxed. "Oh, good. Me too," he said in English. "You need to come with me." He took a quick step.

                " _No_!" Matt raised his hands in self-defense. They trembled.

                The Alpha's movements were so sharp, so practised, like a marching-gait, but quiet. His footsteps were soft, light-footed. It was ghostly. He was a tracker, a ranger; not a charger. Before, he had attacked the blue-eyed Alpha as if from nowhere, like the crack of a whip. He was faster than he was strong, built for speed. He was tall and whiplash-lean, swathed from head-to-toe in white and black, like the Reaper. But it wasn't his size that struck Matt, nor his rare lack of pigment—an albino. It was his stern, pitiless expression and wolfish red eyes. They pierced the Omega from a snow-white face made of sharp angles, like a snowflake. _Those cheekbones could cut glass_ , he thought absently. _And so could that sword_. The naked steel gleamed in the grey daylight, resting at the Alpha's side. It was the length of his long leg, from foot to hipbone. Matt didn't need to feel it to know that it was: a) heavy as sin ( _he's a lot stronger than he looks_ , he thought, remembering the ease with which the Alpha wielded it); and b) sharper than those red eyes.

                "I'm not going to hurt you," he said. His voice was not distinctly deep, but it harboured a predator's growl.

                "That's what they said." Matt bobbed his head, implying the Southerners.

                The Alpha paused, then nodded. To Matt's surprise, he thrust his sword into the earth and left it there too far to reach, looking like a grave-marker. He raised his hands to show Matt that they were empty, then slowly unbuckled the sheathed dagger from his belt and laid it across his palm. He locked eyes with Matt and then tossed it gently. Matt caught it clumsily and drew. It was beautiful, engraved with a majestic cross. _The Iron Cross_ , he remembered, _it's his family's crest_. Carefully, Matt held the dagger out in front of him, two-handed, the blade facing its master. He knew it was a farce—the Alpha could easily disarm him if needed—but holding it _did_ make him feel a fraction safer.

                The Alpha cocked a silver-white eyebrow, empty hands still aloft. "Feel better?"

                Matt ignored the note of condescension, and asked: "Who are you?" One-on-one, he found it easier to speak. Nerves shattered, words poured recklessly from his mouth in a torrent: "And where am I? Why does everyone seem to know me? And Papa—? Who are those Alphas, and why do they want _me_? I don't understand. I-I—I don't even know where I am! My family, they—I mean, I-I—I'm not supposed to be here! I just want to go home! I-I-I—"

                The Alpha's face revealed shock. "Are you okay?"

                Matt's knees buckled and he collapsed. The hand holding the dagger shook violently; the other clutched his chest. His heart raced. His temperature rose, sweat beading his forehead. "I can't—I-I—I can't breathe," he gasped.

                He squeezed his eyes closed as panic overwhelmed him. _Oh_ , _not now_! he begged. He felt lightheaded, dizzy. He felt his body pitch sideways.

                "I've got you, it's okay," said the Alpha, catching him. He knelt, holding the Omega snug against his chest. It was like before, Matt could hear his heartbeat. Strong. Steady. His eyelids fluttered, then opened. Fresh tears spilled out. Beyond the Alpha, the world spun; it was upside-down. Matt whimpered in fear. He tried to draw a deep breath, but his airway constricted and he choked. _I can't breathe_! _I can't breathe_! he panicked. It hurt. He couldn't remember the last time he had fallen victim to such a consuming panic-attack. Not for years.

                _Oh_ , _gods_! _I'm going to suffocate_! _My heart is going to burst_! _I'm going to die_!

                The Alpha grabbed Matt's chin and lifted his face to the sky, opening his airway, encouraging him to breathe deeply. Slowly, he did. One, two, three. It felt familiar: one of the Alpha's strong hands wrapped around his stomach, supporting his weight; the other cupped the back of his head, fingers coiled in his pale curls. The Alpha's fingers were slimmer than Scott's, but not as long and gentle as Francis'; his touch was very deliberate, like Liam and Patrick's; but practised, like Owen's. His proximity calmed Matt's racing heart. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend that he was in his family's protective embrace. Almost. _But it's not them_ , he noted the subtle differences. _He's not the same as them. He's a stranger._ Yet Matt found himself leaning into the Western Alpha's warm body, drawing comfort from his pungent, soothing scent.

                "It's okay," said that raspy voice. "I've got you, it's okay."

                "I-I—I'm sorry," Matt whispered. "I'm better now."

                Shyly, he pushed against the Alpha's chest with his right hand. In his left, he was still clutching the dagger.

                " _Whoa_ , careful!" said the Alpha, grabbing Matt's shoulders to stay his swaying.

                Matt dismissed his help. "I'm fine. I just... I suffer from panic-attacks," he explained in embarrassment.

                The Alpha eyed him skeptically. "Like, post-trauma—?"

                "No, it's genetic."

                "Hm."

                Matt twisted a curl self-consciously, his gaze downcast in shame. The panic-attack had stolen his fight. Or, he thought it had, until the Alpha said:

                "Let's go to the fort."

                Matt shook his head (the world shuddered). "No," he said weakly.

                The Alpha sighed. "If you stay here, Le Roux's Alphas will rape you and kill you," he said bluntly.

                Matt wanted to argue, but there was no lie in the Alpha's forthright tone, no embellishment. It was honest, like Al's. He pursed his lips. "And if I go with you—?" he asked. Bravely, he lifted his gaze for a fleeting second. "How do I know you won't do the same?"

                "You're just going to have to trust me.

                "I'm Gilbert," he added in good-faith. "Captain Gilbert Beilschmidt, Fort Commander of the Black Forest Fort of the Western Empire."

                "Matthew," Matt replied softly.

                "Matthew," Gilbert repeated, "I promise that you'll be safe with me, but first you have to trust me."

                Matt hesitated, then nodded in surrender. He felt tired—so _very_ tired. All of the stress, fear, and exhaustion he had tried to suppress since getting lost seemed to crash down on him all at once, stealing the little strength he had left. He felt helpless. He just wanted to close his eyes and sleep. "Captain," he whispered faintly. The Alpha leant in closer to hear. Matt swayed; his vision blurred. "I'm going to faint now."

                Gilbert's smile was gentle. "Okay," he said. And caught Matt a second later.


	15. Lost Boys – Chapter Six

**WESTERN EMPIRE**

**WILDERNESS**

I told you to stay off that leg," Ivan grumbled.

                Al, who had awoken from a cat-nap begun at high-noon—it was nearly three now—rubbed drowsily at his face. "I know. I am," he yawned. In example, he hopped one-footed. Once, twice. Swaying dangerously, he lowered himself onto his rump beside Ivan, pulling a heavy pelt over his shoulders. Ivan glanced down at Al from his perch on an overturned crate by the fire, then resumed his task. Al sat briefly in silence, then sighed deeply, a subtle request for attention. Ivan ignored it. "I'm bored," Al vocalized, staring meaningfully at Ivan. The Alpha's violet eyes didn't stray; he merely grunted in acknowledgement. Al waited, fidgeted. "What are you doing?" he asked inevitably.

                "I'm repairing a basket," Ivan replied.

                A burst of laughter exploded from Al's mouth. "Basket-weaving?" he grinned. He poked Ivan's shoulder in jest. "That's Omega work!"

                Ivan's cold glare froze Al's grin. The laughter died abruptly.

                "Yes, it's a shame there isn't an able Omega here to help with the chores," he chastised, "then I would be free to pursue my socially prescribed gender-role. _Alphas_ , _we hunt_!" he grunted and thumped his broad chest in a boorish manner. His tone oozed sarcasm. " _Omegas_ , _you basket-weave_!"

                "Okay, I get it! I'm sorry," Al sighed. Red-faced, he pulled his knees to his chest and flinched.

                Ivan's voice resumed its regular base. "Does your leg hurt?"

                "It throbs a little," Al admitted.

                Ivan set the basket aside and shifted on the crate to face Al. Wordlessly, he stretched out a hand, open-palm. It was a subtle order: _Let's see_. Al hesitated, then gingerly lifted his left leg. Ivan took it gently by the ankle and rested it on his knee. Al leant back slightly to compensate for his elevated leg. He watched Ivan anxiously, secretly afraid of the pain. He didn't realize that he was holding his breath until Ivan chuckled.

                "Your face is beet-red," he said as he unwrapped the bandages.

                Al's face grew redder. He looked away, then back. His bare skin tingled at the Alpha's touch. It was firm, but careful. The higher Ivan's hands inspected, the faster Al's heart beat. He tried to look uninterested, but the twinkle in Ivan's violet eyes revealed the Alpha's amusement. As he rewrapped Al's leg with clean linen, he deliberately lingered. He held Al's leg just above the knee, applying the gentlest pressure to the Omega's sensitive thigh. Al's skin was warm, yet he shivered. _Am I imagining it_ , _or_ _is he actually copping a feel_? He considered Ivan for a moment, the stoic Lone Wolf who had showed little interest in the Omega at his mercy. _No_ , he decided, excusing Ivan's groping. The Alpha's actions were habitual. He had tended to Al's leg countless times already. _It's not like that between him and I. I'm just an obligation_. _We aren't friends_ , _just companions by necessity._

                Ivan finished his work and lowered Al's leg, laying his foot on the hide-covered floor.

                "Thank-you," Al said quietly.

                Ivan paused and cast Al a look of genuine surprise. "I've done that a dozen times and you've never thanked me before."

                Al shrugged, feeling self-conscious. He pulled his trouser-leg back down to cover his shin, then hugged the pelt around himself, burying his nose to hide his blushing face.

                "Are you hungry?" Ivan asked.

                "No," Al lied.

                Ivan stoked the fire, then resumed his position, except, this time, he ignored the crate and sat with Al on the floor. Immediately, Al felt drawn toward his body. The Alpha stared absently at the flames, holding a fire-poker in one hand, sifting the embers. The half-repaired basket sat beside him, neglected. His face looked softer in the fire's yellow glow, younger. Impulsively, Al shimmied sideways until he was leaning up against Ivan's side. He rested his cheek just below the Alpha's shoulder and listened to his strong, slow heartbeat. Ivan didn't move, not to remove Al or to cuddle him. Al hadn't expected him to. He sighed in resignation and closed his eyes.

                Ivan said: "You can't seriously be tired."

                "I'm not."

                Since Al had awoke in Ivan's arms, the other snoring—it sounded like a deep purr—contently beside him, he had taken to the Alpha instinctively, like an animal. Despite Al's active tongue, he was a physical being. He liked to be held and touched, preferring nonverbal affection. And Ivan obliged, even if he didn't participate. He didn't complain when Al crawled to his side and snuggled close. In fact, he rarely acknowledged the Omega at all. But the Alpha's body felt good. It was always warm. Not soft, but comfortable. The closer Al was to Ivan, the safer he felt. _Being held is the best feeling there is_ , he thought, thinking of his family's loving embraces. _I wish Ivan would hold me like that_. _I wish he wasn't so distant._ Absently, he kneaded the back of Ivan's shirt between his thumb and forefinger. _Being held by him_ , _by those big_ , _muscular arms_ —Al's heart fluttered— _would feel so good._

                "Little one?"

                Al tensed, fantasy shattered. "Why do you call me that?" he asked, opening his eyes.

                "What?"

                " _Little one_ ," Al repeated. He turned his head, looking up at Ivan. From the angle, he could see the strong jaw and defined laryngeal prominence in the Alpha's throat. "Do you think it's funny?" he asked, a note of unhappiness in his voice.

                He thought of his Alpha friends, who liked to tease him the way they teased each other, insulting each other's skills and looks. Al would force a good-humoured smile and laugh it off, but he always felt the bite of insecurity. He couldn't make a fuss, though; he didn't want his friends to think he was too sensitive for jokes. Al was thick-skinned when his household skills were criticized (usually by Arthur), but he disliked when people poked fun at his looks. It's why he had tried so hard to change them, to lose weight. Secretly, he was terrified of gaining back what he had lost.

                _I know I'm not delicate. I know I'm too big to be a beautiful Omega_. _I don't need anyone else to remind me_.

                "I don't like being teased," he said abruptly. The words were spoken before Al could swallow them. He barely had time to regret it, however, before Ivan said:

                "I'm not."

                "Not what? Not making fun of me?"

                "No."

                "Then why do you call me _little one_?" he asked in challenge. "I'm not little, not at all."

                "You're littler than me," Ivan said simply.

                Al stared curiously at him for a moment, searching for a lie, a cruel jest, but he relaxed when he found none. Ivan's face was as uninterested as ever, eyes fixed on the fire.

                "Everyone is littler than you," he grumbled, feigning annoyance as he shimmied back down.

                In truth, his stomach flipped nervously. He tried to ignore it, but he wanted Ivan to hold him now more than ever. He wanted to feel that big, broad body envelope him, warm muscles flexed with strength. Since Al had come-of-age, he had rarely felt small. Scott was the only Islander who made Al feel small, but the pack-leader was not fond of cuddling with anyone except for Matt, whom he indulged ( _just like everyone else_ ). Lars had made Al feel less big, but he, too, had preferred Matt. _I know it's my looks. I'm too big_ , _too tall_ , _too fat_. A wave of self-loathing crashed over the young Omega. He tried to ignore it, but it was fueled by Ivan's disinterest. Tears burned his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. It had been many years since he had cried in front of anyone but Arthur. He tried to be logical:

                _What did I expect_? _Alphas want small_ , _delicate Omegas that make them feel bigger_ _and more powerful. If Matt was here_ _then_ _Ivan would prefer him_ , _too._

The thought provoked a surge of sudden envy, like nothing Al had ever felt before. It was accompanied by a feeling of such intense possessiveness, Al found himself at a complete loss. He felt angry and helpless simultaneously. He couldn't explain it.

                "Stop whining," Ivan said suddenly.

                Al stopped immediately. He hadn't noticed the pitiful noise he was making. He buried his face, feeling angry and embarrassed. Ivan misinterpreted Al's internal conflict as distress. He must have, for Al couldn't determine any other reason for what the Alpha did next.

                Without warning, Ivan lifted an arm and wrapped it securely around Al's body, pulling him in close. It took a moment for the shock to dissipate, for Al to remember how to breathe. Since the first night Ivan had crawled into bed with him, the Alpha had let the Omega cling to him without complaint, but he had never responded before. He had never even looked down at Al before. Not, Al realized, that Ivan was looking at him now. His eyes were still plastered to the fire, sparkling as they reflected the flickering light. Al froze instinctively, then he slowly let himself sink into the embrace he had only moments ago been fantasizing about. As expected, he felt small. Not delicate or helpless, but like someone in need of soothing. Ivan held Al tightly, yet gently—as always. The comfort he lent was subtle, as if he really did think that Al was distressed, but wouldn't verbally acknowledge it to preserve the Omega's dignity. Still, it quieted Al's insecurities. It made him feel valued, as if he was something worth guarding.

                _I was right_ , Al thought, pressing his cheek to Ivan's chest. _This feels so good_.

                "Ivan—?"

                The Alpha grunted in acknowledgement. When Al didn't reply, he glanced down.

                Al smiled up at him, and said: "I'm hungry."

* * *

Ivan sighed. Al was incorrigible.

                "I just asked if you were hungry."

                "I know. Now I am," he replied, ignoring his previous dismissal.

                _I knew you had to be_ , Ivan thought. The Omega's eating habits were inconsistent. Al hadn't eaten anything since breakfast, just a half-bowl of porridge. _He's still healing_ , _he needs to eat more._ Ivan felt like Al's Omega-parent, goading him into eating, sleeping, and taking better care of himself. _You're too skinny_ , he noted, gently squeezing Al's ribs. _How can you think you're not little_? _You're half-starved_! It angered Ivan when Al refused to eat, but he held his tongue, afraid of bullying the Omega into a fit. Al was the kind of Omega who would do something just because he had been told the opposite. He would not be ordered or forced, something Ivan had discovered early. If Al Kirkland didn't want to do something, then Al Kirkland didn't.

                _Stubborn_ , _Omega_!

                Of course, it was a two-way street. He was a very self-involved Omega, very brazen. If Al Kirkland _did_ want to do something, then he did it without thinking—like cuddling with Ivan.

                _He's like an animal seeking comfort_. _He just likes the warmth_ , _my body-heat_ , Ivan justified, holding Al one-armed. The Omega had fidgeted, crawling absently onto the Alpha's lap and burying his face below Ivan's collarbone, like a nesting pup. Ivan's leg was numb under Al's weight, but he didn't move. He hadn't wanted to disturb Al, whom he had thought was asleep. _Asleep again_? Ivan had never met anyone who slept as much as Al. The Omega mumbled incoherently now and then, but mostly he just whined. It was a sad sound, as if he was distressed. _What now_? Ivan wondered, trying—and failing—to feel annoyed. Before he could stop himself, he had raised an arm to hold the Omega close. It was instinct, a reflex. But it felt good. Al relaxed and rested his head on Ivan's chest, his body curled against the Alpha, feeling safe. _So good_.

                _It's the physical contact he likes_ , _not me_ , Ivan reminded himself. _I'm just a big_ , _warm body. I'm replaceable._ _He won't stay here forever. When his leg heals_ , _he'll leave. Someone else will hold and comfort him then. Maybe one of his Alpha friends_ —

                Ivan swallowed a growl.

                His stomach knotted at the thought of being left alone again. Al was—annoying, talkative, disobedient—good company that he didn't want to lose.

                _I want to keep him_ , he thought selfishly, feeling possessive. But if there was ever an Omega who wouldn't be held against his will, it was Al Kirkland.

                Ivan consoled his loneliness by gently squeezing Al. He wanted to hold him tighter, but he had to be careful. Al was small; his bones were fragile. Ivan didn't want to accidentally bruise his pretty bronze skin, especially since he was already injured. Ivan had to be gentle, or he risked hurting the Omega through neglect. It had happened before with other Omegas, who had been afraid of Ivan because of it. More than anything, he didn't want to hurt Al. And he didn't want Al to be afraid of him.

                Quickly, Ivan grabbed the fire-poker to keep his mind distracted and his hands busy. He liked to be busy, he disliked idleness. He needed to feel useful. His childhood had been too short for playing; play had been discouraged—beaten out of him—at an early age. But Al's impish smile and sparkly jewel-blue eyes made Ivan want to joke and play with him, like a pup. He often found himself inadvertently wrestling with Al when the Omega refused to comply, not because he didn't want what Ivan was offering, but because he wanted to play. Al liked to poke at him, provoking the Alpha. He liked to tug at Ivan's clothes and hair, like a toddler abusing an old, good-humoured dog. His mischievous smirk seemed to say: _Play with me_! And Ivan wanted to. He wanted to wrestle Al, tickle him, and make him screech. He wanted to see Al's flushed face, gasping, smiling, moaning. He wanted to pin the gorgeous Omega under him and tease every inch of his golden body—with his tongue. He wanted to hold Al, not as a friend or caretaker, but as a mate. Instead, he ignored Al. He actively tried not to look at him. He pushed him (gently) away when the Omega felt frisky. Ivan wouldn't—couldn't—admit how much he liked holding Al, because he was afraid of wanting more.

                _He likes the physical contact_ , _but that's all it is to him. It means nothing. It's just convenient_ , _like me._

                _I shouldn't indulge him_ , he thought. He had saved Al out of pity, he hadn't expected the Omega to survive. He hadn't intended to get attached. _I can't_. If he did, it would only hurt that much more when Al left.

                "Why are you staring at me?" Al asked, frowning. A faint blush coloured his cheeks. "Did you hear me?"

                "Yes, I heard you."

                Unceremoniously, Ivan stood, leaving Al unbalanced. The Omega fell forward with a soft: " _Oof_!" He looked up at Ivan from his stomach, thick eyelashes lowered, and pouted, somehow looking cute _and_ sexy. A too-big sleeve had slipped off of his shoulder, hanging lopsidedly, revealing a generous amount of perfect, soft skin.

                Ivan swallowed a mouthful of saliva and turned away.

* * *

Where are you going?" Al asked.

                "I'm going to get you something to eat," Ivan replied curtly.

                He stalked to a weathered box in the corner, heavy-footed. _Is he angry_? Al wondered, noting how tense the Alpha suddenly looked. He hadn't meant to upset Ivan. He knew that he was a burden, unable to hunt for himself. He knew how frustrating it must be for an adult Alpha to have to play caretaker to an adult Omega, an injured one, which is why Al tried to keep their relationship as lighthearted as possible. But Ivan didn't like to play. No doubt, he thought Al was annoying. _I can't help it_ , he sighed in defeat, _I'm bored_. _And Ivan is so easy to provoke_! There was something about the big, stoic Alpha that made Al want to tease him, poke him, tug at him, fishing for a reaction. _Come on_ , _Ivan_! _Fight back_! He wanted to see the Alpha smile a genuine, nonthreatening smile. He wanted to hear the Alpha's laugh. _Fight me_! _Tackle me_! _Pin me down_ , _crawl on top of me_ , _and_ —

                Al blushed. Fortunately, Ivan's back was turned.

                 The Alpha had opened the box and was digging through it. It caught Al's attention. The box had sat there for as long as Al had been in Ivan's company, but he had never seen its contents. It seemed limitless. It was the place Ivan stored his valuables, tools, and weapons. Al had asked about it once, expecting Ivan to ignore him as always, but to his surprise the Alpha's eyes had narrowed in warning, and he snapped: "Don't touch it!" Since then, he had actively kept Al away from the wooden box. His secrecy didn't make Al want to investigate any less, of course, but he respected that it contained the Alpha's private property and he let it be. However, as Ivan pulled out a hunting-knife, Al accidentally caught sight of a grey jacket, which was folded neatly. It looked like a uniform, stitched with a foreign insignia, and his curiosity returned tenfold. A hundred questions formed on Al's tongue, but he stayed silent. Ivan was already tense. Al didn't want to upset him by breaking the only real rule the Alpha had imposed.

                Ivan closed the box's lid, clutching the hunting-knife. "Stay here. I'll be right back," he said. It sounded more like a warning than a farewell.

                Al waited for Ivan's footsteps to fade, swallowed by the forest, before he wobbled gracelessly over to the box.

                He slid his fingers beneath the lid, opening it slowly. He just wanted a peek. _I just want to know what you're not telling me_ , he thought, hoping that the box's contents would reveal Ivan's past. The lid lifted and fell back. It was a lot fuller than Al expected, everything stacked neatly. The grey uniform jacket sat on the top. Al took it and unfolded it carefully. He had never seen the insignia before, but the cut was unmistakable: a military jacket. The fabric was course between Al's fingers. Generic. Mass-produced. There was a dark stain on the sleeve. He set the jacket aside and sifted through a pile of tools, a couple of weapons. A knife's hilt was engraved with the same State-issued symbol. He lifted a tinder-box, which was not full of tinder, but of small trinkets, mostly jewelry. _Prizes_. The word jumped into Al's head before he could stop it and he felt suddenly chilled. _Spoils of war._ His stomach clenched tightly as he looked through the contents, unable to stop himself: a ring; a bracelet; a pendent; a wood necklace engraved with two sets of initials—someone's claiming gift. A pen-knife; a compass; a cracked hand-mirror. Al's hands were shaking by the time he lifted an Omega-pup's doll. It had a stain on it the same dark shade as the jacket. Quickly, Al shoved it back into the tinder-box and closed it. He dropped it. It clanged off of something near the bottom of the box, wrapped in an old oil-skin. Al knew it by its shape, he needn't look, but he did. A big, heavy steel sword as wide as Al's leg. It was well cared for, still sharp.

                Al pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle a whine. He should not have been surprised. He had been expecting Ivan's past to be something unsavoury, why else would he keep it secret? But the physical evidence hit Al like a blow. The blood on the Omega-pup's doll made him feel ill.

                _No_ , _no he didn't_. He felt tears sting his eyes.

                _Oh_ , _Ivan_ —

                "I gave you one rule."

                Al whipped around, wide-eyed.

                Ivan's silhouette stood at the cave's entrance, big and powerful, his eyes reflecting the firelight, gleaming. His teeth were clenched; his fists were balled. He took a step forward. Slow, deliberate. He didn't blink. He pierced Al with a haunting gaze. Al had never seen the Alpha look so angry. It was unlike his empty threats. It was real.

                "I told you not to touch."

                "I-I—I'm sorry!" Al choked out. He could feel himself cowering as Ivan advanced. "I just wanted to know—"

                "Well now you know," said Ivan menacingly.

                Without warning, he threw a dead pheasant against the cave wall. Its bones cracked on impact. Al flinched, shrinking lower.

                "Are you happy?" Ivan asked, growling. He reached behind Al and slammed the box closed. "Now that you know what I am, what I've done, _are you fucking happy_?"

                Al gasped when Ivan grabbed his collar and jolted him forward. Rough. He faced Ivan, nearly nose-to-nose, but for once he couldn't meet the Alpha's eyes. He felt guilty, ashamed. Afraid.

                "None of that belongs to you," said Ivan, shaking in anger. "You shouldn't have touched it. I told you _not to fucking touch it_!"

                A terrible roar filled the cave. Al acted in reflex. He grabbed the hunting-knife from Ivan's belt and slammed the hilt into the Alpha's temple. "Get away from me!" he shrieked, slithering out of Ivan's grasp. Clumsily, he escaped to the opposite side of the cave, to the bed. There, against the cave wall, he extended the knife's blade in threat. "Don't touch me!" he snarled as aggressively as he could.

                Ivan eyed Al, his chest heaving as he breathed, trying to curb his fury. A low growl reverberated in his throat. He took a step toward Al, his murderous gaze fixed on the defensive Omega. Al held his breath, paralyzed with fear. Could he really stab Ivan if he needed to? His whole body trembled. Ivan's shadow swallowed him. He didn't blink. He reached for Al with a powerful hand. Al readied to lunge. Then, just before he reached the Omega, Ivan drew back. In effort his hand curled back into a shaking fist and he suddenly changed direction. With a loud, frustrated growl he left the cave and was gone.

                Al barely felt the pain in his leg as he collapsed on the bedding, the knife landing mutely beside him.

* * *

**WESTERN EMPIRE**

**BLACK FOREST FORT**

 

Matthew?"

                Matt was staring out of the bedchamber's window at the forested landscape below. The narrow window was barely wider than an arrow-loop; the bedchamber was large, but barren, not unlike Lars'. _Why don't Alphas want to be comfortable_? he had thought. Then again, it wasn't a house; it was an army base. A fort. It looked like a fort and it smelled like a fort: cold, hard, empty, and built for practicality, not luxury. At least the bed was soft and the crackling hearth fire warm. Matt had been so exhausted that he had fallen effortlessly into a deep, dreamless slumber as soon as Gil had let him. But it had been a short reprieve. Since Gil had brought Matt to the Black Forest Fort, the Omega felt trapped. He felt safer surrounded by the thick stone walls, protected like he hadn't been in the forest, but—

                _I'm a prisoner here. I can't escape. If I do choose to leave_ , _I'll die_.

* * *

**TWELVE HOURS AGO**

Can you walk?" Gil asked.

                Drowsily, Matt nodded. He felt dizzy, hungry, but he didn't want to be carried into the fort like a damsel. Gil set him down, but took his arm in escort, folding Matt's hand into the curve of his arm; afraid that the Omega would collapse or run, Matt didn't know. His mouth felt dry as he looked up at the Black Forest Fort's imposing stone walls and he leant cowardly into the Alpha's solid body. Gil called up to the guards, ordering them to open the gate. "It's okay, just stay close," he whispered to Matt as he led the Omega inside. The gate closed heavily behind them, making Matt feel instantly trapped. His heart beat faster. Timidly, he hugged Gil's bicep, seeking a shield from the dozens of baffled eyes that suddenly turned in his direction, watching him; some in confusion, some in suspicion, and some like they had never seen an Omega before in their lives. The soldiers didn't dare question their red-eyed commander, but they congregated in the courtyard without orders, awaiting Gil's explanation.

                " _Captain_?" said a big, blue-eyed blonde in bewilderment.

                " _Lieutenant_." Gil nodded curtly and kept walking. He led Matt up a flight of wooden stairs, then stopped. In a booming voice that made Matt flinch, he said (in German):

                " _This is Matthew. He is a guest of the fort and he is under my protection_. _He is NOT to be touched._ "

                As Gil talked—presumably explaining Matt's presence—Matt tried to ignore the soldiers' eyes. It felt like déjà vu, standing on a dais and clutching an Alpha for safety while others gawked at him. But unlike the Low-Landers, who had smiled and cheered at the news being relayed, the Westerner soldiers stared in stony silence. Matt heard the wind whistle through tower rafters; the faraway cry of a crow; the lazy flap of a flag. He heard his own heart beat in his ears. The atmosphere was tense and unwelcome. The Alphas themselves looked cold and tired, and the fort looked grey.

                _They know that I'm not supposed to be here_ , Matt thought. He remembered what Captain Le Roux had said about the West's laws. _They know it's illegal._

                Gil's speech ended abruptly. The Alphas all echoed: " _Yes_ , _sir_!" and then dispersed wordlessly to their duties. It was not a friendly reception, Matt thought, but if Gil was worried he didn't show it. On the contrary, he seemed to be more relaxed now than he had been in the forest; more in command. He led Matt into the keep, ignoring the blue-eyed Alpha who tried fervently to catch the captain's attention. It was dark and quiet inside, the walls blocking out the sounds of the courtyard. In silence, they climbed to the second level where Gil stopped in front of a door. "This is my private bedchamber," he said, inviting Matt inside. "You'll be safe in here."

                "Safe for how long?" Matt asked.

                Gil shut the door, then turned. Matt tensed as the Alpha stepped further into the room. Forthright, he said:

                "I'm not going to sugar-coat this, okay? You're in danger, Matthew Bonnefoi. And if you haven't figured that out yet, then you're a lot denser than you look. In less than a day, Le Roux will return with a company of Southerners who will lay siege to this fort to get to you. I can't let that happen."

                Matt wrapped his arms around himself and shook his head. "But why? Why _me_?"

                "It's because you're Francis Bonnefoi's pup—"

                "Yes, you all keep saying that, but nobody has told me why my Papa is a wanted Alpha." A note of frustration leaked into Matt's voice. "What crime was Captain Le Roux talking about?"

                "Francis Bonnefoi," Gil hesitated, "is a murderer charged with regicide. Patricide," he added darkly. "It's said he murdered his Alpha-father, the Clan Leader, fifteen years ago. That's why he left the South."

                "No." The word was quiet, but the conviction surprised Gil. "You're wrong. My Papa's not a murderer."

                "The South thinks otherwise."

                "The South is _wrong_!" Matt snapped, feeling angry in defense. "I know my Papa. I know how much he loves us. He would never hurt his family, not for any reason. He loved his clan. Leaving it hurt him badly. I don't care what the South believes, he's not a murderer. It's impossible."

                "Maybe."

                Matt frowned at Gil. The Alpha sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping. He looked as tired as his soldiers.

                "I don't know, okay? I wasn't there," he said tersely. "It was fifteen years ago, I was five. I was busy chasing birds and abusing my little brother. All I can tell you is what I've heard."

                He gestured to the bed, inviting Matt to sit. Reluctantly Matt sat on the edge, shifting as the mattress dipped beneath Gil's added weight, pulling him toward the centre. The Alpha sat on the opposite end at a polite distance and faced Matt like a storyteller. He said:

                "The Southern Empire called Bonnefoi a traitor for murdering his Alpha-father, but I'm not the only one who thinks that the circumstances of Bonnefoi Senior's death were more than a little suspicious. The Southern Empire has always been power-hungry," he said, guessing at Matt's naivety on the subject. "It swallows the free clans like a beast, steadily expanding its territory. It has been for generations.

                "Fifteen years ago the Emperor set his sights on the free French clans and conquered them all, except one. Francis' clan resisted the Southern Army. They fought back, and—miraculously—they won. So the Emperor changed tactic. If he couldn't defeat them in the field, he would conquer them by negotiation. Rather than waste resources on a siege, he called a truce with the French. He sent a small party of envoys to the French city to negotiate a treaty. The Southerners spoke pretty words, making promises that I, at least, don't think they ever intended to honour. It's said that Francis was there, the Clan Leader's fifteen-year-old heir. He was a pup, but he was arrogant. That's how the story goes, anyway. He was loud and rude to the Southerners, and made no effort to play-nice and hold his tongue. It was his pride that angered the Southerners. He openly criticised his Alpha-father, the Clan Leader." Gil paused to shake his head, as if he couldn't believe the gall of young-Francis; as if the mere thought of disobeying one's sire was criminal. "It was a very public display," he continued. "Eventually, Francis stormed off as a sign of protest. He hated the South; he had made that very clear.

                "I wonder," he thought aloud, "if he had been older, or smarter, or just better behaved, would his clan have believed him? Would they have tried to protect him?" He shrugged. "I guess it doesn't matter.

                "That night, the French Clan Leader was found dead in his chambers and Francis was blamed. I don't know what evidence they found to support it, but after Francis' public disgrace nobody had trouble believing it was him. He singlehandedly proved everything that the Southerners had been saying true: That the French clan was poisoned from within, in danger of betrayal. I don't know if it was fear, or anger, or grief that made the French clan-members believe it, but they did. They swore loyalty to the Southern Emperor in exchange for the Southern Army's protection and a promise of revenge. The French militia joined with the Southern Army and they hunted Francis, the pup whom they branded a blood-traitor. The pup who hated the South so much that he had murdered his own Alpha-father.

                "I'm sorry," Gil added, looking at Matt.

                Matt stared at the floor, his hands folded tightly, white-knuckled. He pursed his lips as he processed what he had just been told.

                "You don't believe it, do you," he said softly. It was a statement, not a question.

                Gil shrugged noncommittally. "It sounds a little too easy to me. Francis was a convenient scapegoat, don't you think? He was only fifteen. I think the French clans were scared and desperate, and I think the Southerners took advantage of a paranoia that was already growing inside. The South couldn't defeat the French by force, so they took a different route and crippled the clan from within, purging it of rebellious influence in the process. Had Francis stayed, he would've been a figurehead for future rebellion. Who better to rally the troops than the Clan Leader's heir? In the end, I think it had to be Francis who got blamed for the murder. He was the only logical choice, because the Southern Empire couldn't risk the French unifying and regaining their freedom. To the South, Francis' life was a representation of liberty. That's why they wanted him dead.

                "That's why they want _you_ dead, Matthew."

                Matt looked at Gil in disbelief. "Me? No, I—"

                "You're Francis Bonnefoi's pup, which means you've got the blood of the French clan before it was annexed. You represent now what Francis did fifteen years ago, a birth-right to lead the French clan to freedom. If the French knew of your existence, then rebels—separatists—might come forward in defiance of the Southern Empire and plot to restore Francis' bloodline, _you_ , as their leader."

                Matt shook his head fervently, curls bouncing. He felt overwhelmed. "No, that's not true. I don't understand. On the Isles, the Clan Leader is chosen by ability, trial-by-combat."

                "This isn't the Isles, Matthew," Gil said stonily. "Here, blood is worth more than anything. Leaders aren't just governors, they're symbols of power."

                "But that's not me," Matt argued. "I'm not like that, really I'm not. I don't want anything to do with the clans in the South. I just want..." _to go home._

                His voice faded as he stared vacantly at his hands. _This is too much_ , he thought. _How did this happen to me_? For years he had prepared himself for a domestic life as an Alpha's Omega-mate, and that alone had been taxing. He had expected to be bred. He had promised to be a good Omega-father to his pups, following Arthur's example, loving and devoted. He had decided to be a good mate, to put his Alpha-mate first. But that's all. He had never even expected to leave the Isles, let alone go from pair-bonding with a Low-Lander to being a Western soldier's voluntary captive.

                _These past two weeks have really sucked_.

                Forget the Rhine, Matt felt like he was drowning in social politics.

                "Why did you save me?" he asked Gil. He couldn't hide the note of suspicion in his voice. Recent events had put him permanently on-guard. "I'm a danger to you and this fort, you said so yourself. All of your Alphas know it too, I saw it on their faces. They're afraid of the South, aren't they? So are you. So why did you break the law? Why are you risking the South's wrath for me? If what you've told me about my Papa is true, then this isn't your fight."

                "No, it's not."

                "Then why—?"

                Gil broke eye-contact. "Because when I saw you alone in the forest, I wanted to help you. And I still do."

                _Help me_?

                "Mate me, you mean," Matt supplied.

                Gil exhaled a short, nervous laugh. "See, I knew you weren't dense," he said, staring keenly at the floor. His albino-pale cheeks reddened.

                Matt had never seen an adult Alpha blush before. Then again, most Alphas had taken mates by the time they were twenty-years-old; most had pups by then. It was disarming to see one—a soldier, a red-eyed wolf—so flustered at the thought of mating. Despite his defense, Matt felt himself blush in reply.

                _This is ridiculous_ , he thought. _He's a stranger_ , _he's taken me captive_ , _and he wants to mate me_. _I should be terrified of him_.

                Instead, he said: "Mating-law trumps blood-law, that's what you said to Captain Le Roux."

                "Omegas belong to their Alphas and are adopted by their Alpha's family and clan. It's the same everywhere, I think," Gil said, speaking to the floor. "The West protects its kin. By adoption or not, if a clan-member is threatened then the West's laws protect him, no matter how great the danger. The Western Empire doesn't surrender," he stated proudly, regaining a spark of confidence. "As long as the Omega is mated to a Westerner, the Empire protects him."

                "That's why you lied to Le Roux. You told him that I was your intended mate so that you could protect me."

                "Yes, that's why."

                "But I can't be yours," Matt remembered, touching the gold band on his finger. "I'm already pair-bonded—"

                "But not mated," Gil said. Slowly, he lifted his red gaze. "I'm sorry if you're in love with him." He bobbed his chin, indicating the ring. "But your life now depends on being mated, not pair-bonded. I don't know what it's like on the Isles, but here on the Mainland you're not considered a true pair-bonded couple until you've been mated by your Alpha. And you haven't."

                "I know I haven't, but—"

                "If you leave this fort unmated, there is nothing to protect you from Le Roux," said Gil. He stood, distancing himself from Matt. The bashful Alpha was gone; the soldier was back. "It won't take the Southerners long to find you, and when they do you will die. You pose too much of a threat to the Southern Empire. Those Alphas will rape you and kill you. They'll take pleasure in it. And the law will let them."

                "But—"

                "This isn't a game!" Gil snapped suddenly. Matt flinched. There was an odious growl in his voice, revealing anger as he stood over the Omega, but Matt could see fear as well. _It's not me he's angry at_. Again, he noted how tired the Alpha looked; how worried.

"This is a war," Gil growled. "It's fucking ugly. And if you test it then you're going to get very, _very_ hurt. It's not a fucking fairytale, okay? It's real. There's no shining white knight waiting to rescue you, sweetheart. There's no hero. There's just me."

                Matt didn't move. He stayed perfectly silent. The Alpha's temper barely fazed him, overpowered by the threat of his words and dread of the looming decision he had to make, but Gil misinterpreted Matt's silence for fear. He must have, because he backed off suddenly and knelt, overcompensating for his outburst. Suddenly, he looked more like a blushing suitor than a soldier.

                "I'm sorry, uh..." Absently, he raked a hand through his silver-white hair, mussing it. He eyed Matt guiltily. "I'm not very good at this," he admitted, attempting a half-smile. It failed, unrequited. "I'm not trying to frighten you," he said earnestly, "but I won't lie. I'm just telling you the truth, okay? I won't force you to do anything you don't want to do. It's your choice, but I _am_ the only thing standing between you and Le Roux. I think you know that."

                "My choice," Matt repeated, feeling hollow. Deliberately, he looked down at the kneeling Alpha. He felt cold. He didn't realize he was shivering until Gil held out a hand. It was so white it was nearly translucent, skin stretched taut over strong bones and crosshatched with old, pale scars. Matt hesitated. It was a long time before he moved, but Gil didn't retreat. He didn't lower his hand; he didn't break eye-contact; he didn't retract his offer. He stayed motionless, waiting for the Omega to come to a decision. Finally, Matt sighed and reached for the Alpha's hand.

                "How could I reject such a charming proposal?" he said sardonically.

                Gil eyed him uncertainly. "You'll do it then?" he asked. He pulled the Omega with him as he stood. It was a fast, forceful action, more like himself. Matt nearly lost his balance.

                "If you mean be your mate," said Matt, lifting his head to meet the Alpha's eyes, cold violet staring into fierce red, "then yes, I'll do it.

                "I don't want to die."

* * *

**PRESENT**

Matthew—?" Gil repeated.

                Reluctantly, Matt tore his gaze away from the window and faced Gil. It had been hours since he had seen the Alpha, not since he had accepted Gil's proposal. Gil had left him in the near-empty bedchamber to eat, wash, and rest. As Matt scrubbed his skin clean, rinsing unscented suds from his curls, he found himself missing his family afresh. He tried not to cry, but tears fell even as he tried to wash his face. _Stop it_ , he chastised himself. _Stop crying_ , _he's going to think you're pathetic_! But he couldn't help it. He felt so alone. The last time he had properly bathed and slept in a bed, Al had been there. The last time he had felt trepidation to pair-bond with an Alpha, his whole family had been there to support him. _I miss them so much_. _And Lars... I'm sorry_ , he thought, feeling guilty as he rubbed the Alpha's ring. _I'm sorry_ , _but I don't want to die_. He dressed in the clothes Gil had left for him—an Alpha squire's hand-me-downs—and briefly considered removing Lars' ring, but in the end he left it on. It was the only physical reminder he had of what he had left behind. He peered into Gil's small looking-glass and habitually began finger-combing his pale-blonde curls, pulling them back from his face the way Francis liked it, but he stopped abruptly. Tears filled his eyes and he couldn't meet his own reflection, so he looked away. He ate a small meal, hunger abated by anxiety, and then crawled into Gil's bed and slept for a long time, until the tolling of a bell shocked him awake. He bolted upright, disoriented and afraid of the last bell he had heard, but it was only the noontide bell tolling the time. The sun was high in the midday sky, but its light was weak. A hazy shine filtered in through the narrow window, revealing a curtain of grey mist.

                He could see it now, coating Gil. It made him look like an apparition. He stood in the dead-centre of the big room in his shirt-sleeves. He had removed his metal and leather armour, and his heavy cloak in preparation. Without the articles of his profession—the regal insignia; the proud sword—his clothes looked threadbare, in desperate need of cleaning and mending. His shirt was faded and torn in places; his trousers were worn thin and frayed; his knee-high boots were well cared-for, but old and cracked. The Fort Commander's attire looked not unlike the fort itself, holding determinedly together by meager threads. It made Matt wonder how long Gil and his Alphas had been living at the old fort, isolated, and defending an Empire that looked as if it had forgotten them. Yet despite his ragged appearance, Gil was strong. Like the fort, he was proud. There was a fearlessness about him that Matt liked. He held his head high, his shoulders back, his chest out. He was a very handsome Alpha. There was a wildness about his person that lent spice to his appearance, which, for all of his stiff formality, was still dashingly devil-may-care. There was a glint in the Alpha's red eyes, the curve of his lips, that whispered mischief. Matt's stomach fluttered giddily in reply, but the feeling was fleeting. He remembered what the Alpha's return implied and a sinking feeling replaced the giddy one.

                "Can't we wait?" he asked meekly. It was a futile request, he knew, likely to annoy Gil, but he was scared. "In three weeks, I'll be in Heat—"

                "Matthew," said the Alpha soberly, "you don't have three _days_. Le Roux will be here by sunset. We've already waited as long as we can."

                Matt nodded in apology. His heart was pounding as he stepped into the centre of the bedchamber to meet Gil and his fate, resigned as he began to unbutton his borrowed shirt. He tried to hide his nerves, but his fingers trembled violently. He felt cold, full of dread. As he released a button, he pictured Gil watching him, as Lars had once done, and he felt his cheeks heat in embarrassment. _Don't think about what you're doing_ , _just do it_ , he told himself. _It won't be that bad. It can't be that bad_ , _or nobody would ever want to do it. It's just mating. It'll be over quickly. All I have to do is let him—_

He flinched suddenly when Gil gabbed his hand, stopping him. In shock, Matt's face revealed his fear.

                _Oh_ , _no_! _Did I do something wrong already_?

                Gil lowered Matt's hands, neglecting the shirt buttons. "Keep it on if you want," he allowed.

                Holding Matt's hand, he led the young Omega to the bed.

* * *

Gil had never felt so tense, not even before a battle. At least in battle he was surrounded by his comrades, who obeyed him, who trusted him. In battle there was always a plan-of-action, rules to follow. In battle he was unafraid of a poor performance. He was confident, brazen even. In battle he knew what he was doing. Here, however, he did not. Here, he was alone with a traumatized Omega, barely an adult by clan-law, whom he had no idea what to do with and no one to consult. Gil had spent his whole life surrounded by Alphas, after all: loud, rough, rude soldiers-in-training, who were virile, physical beings. He had never had to worry about hurting any of them. Alphas were made of sterner stuff, made to test the world with the gifts nature had bestowed upon them. But Omegas were different. Omegas were softer and quieter and more mysterious. Omegas were uncharted territory as far as Gil knew. It had been two years since he had so much as seen an Omega, and not one so young and pretty as Matt. Looking at Matt, Gil felt utterly lost.

                _But I'm not the only one_ , he realized, feeling selfish. Matt's elegant figure was shaking from head-to-toe. He was tense, his eyes downcast. _He doesn't know what to do either._

                Gil watched Matt crawl obediently onto the bed, body twisting, long legs pulled up to his chest in defense. He kept his head bowed, silky pale-blonde curls hiding his face as he awaited the Alpha's lead. He sat as still as a statue as Gil removed his clothes, feeling bashful as he did so. He had never been stark-naked in front of an Omega before. And he knew he was nothing pretty to look at. Maybe if he was handsomer Matt might feel more inclined to—He shook the thought from his head. _This is no time to feel sorry for yourself_ , _Beilschmidt_! _You've got a beautiful Omega waiting for you_ , _just look at him_! Gil knew he was blushing, staring like a fool, but he couldn't look away from Matt. His eyes hungrily drank in every detail, every angle, every clothed curve. Matt had been an attractive vagabond, but now, clean and rested, Gil felt as if he had struck gold. He tried hard not to let it show, but already he felt his lower-body stir.

                He stalked hastily forward until his knees struck the bed-frame, too eager. _Slow_ , _go slowly_. _Don't scare him._ Tentatively, he reached out and touched Matt's cold hand, but the Omega gave no response. Gil climbed onto the bed on his hands-and-knees and positioned himself in front of Matt, placing both hands on the Omega's folded knees, but there was still no reply. Matt kept his gaze plastered to the window. He hadn't looked at Gil even once.

                _Please look at me_ , he thought. He knew why Matt didn't want to, but it didn't make Gil feel any less slighted. _Please don't make me feel like a villain_.

                He tried to soothe the Omega by touch, but his soldier's hands were rough and clumsy—too eager. He tried to coax the Omega, sliding his hands up the length of Matt's thighs to his wide hips, but that only produced a shiver.

                _He's not going to like it no matter what I do_ , Gil realized. _Because he doesn't want me touching him at all. Why am I even wasting my time_? _I'm just prolonging his discomfort._

                Decisively, Gil untied Matt's belt and tossed it aside. _Don't worry_ , _it'll be over soon_ , he thought (more than a little embarrassed that this would likely be true).

                Matt didn't look at Gil as the Alpha slowly stretched out the Omega's legs, drawing his trousers down, but his skin flushed in response. Gil's stomach flipped and his nostrils flared, filling with the Omega's heady, sweet scent. He couldn't suppress a groan as he touched bared skin. The mere sight of Matt's skin, as white as virgin snow, made the Alpha's mouth water. He wanted to lick it—

                _Don't_! He stopped himself, hands returning to Matt's hips. _Don't tease him. He's already trembling._

                Indeed, Matt was leaning back into the pillows, trying to distance himself from the Alpha between his legs.

                _He doesn't want my touch_ , Gil remembered, but self-control was quickly failing. He couldn't _not_ touch the half-naked Omega lying defencelessly beneath him. It was too tempting. Gil had never held an Omega before, not like this. His heart was beating in time with Matt's, but instead of fear it was excitement that fuelled him. He tried to resist the raw, instinctive desire that flooded him, but found himself leaning further down, wanting to smell, and touch, and taste Matt, his soon-to-be mate. And he did. He felt his cock growing uncomfortably hard as he indulged in the young, fertile Omega, provoked by the soft sounds he produced.

_I'm going to mate you_ , he thought, feeling intoxicated. _I'm going to put an invisible mark on you and make you mine. I want it. I want you. I want you to look at me_. _I want you to praise me. I want you to beg me. I want you to love me_.

A sudden whine escaped Matt and Gil's half-closed eyes snapped open.

                "Matthew—?"

                He intended a soothing tone, but his voice was a hoarse growl. In reply, Matt closed his eyes. A stab of guilt pierced Gil, but it was quickly submerged by lust. His hard, aching cock was demanding release. Gil had never mated an Omega before—his profession forbid it—but he wanted this one now.

                "It's okay," he growled, fighting a losing battle to his baser instincts. "Matthew, I'm not going to—" _hurt you_. But that was a lie. Gil knew next to nothing of Omega Heat cycles, but he did know that Omegas were supposed to be mated for the first time during a Heat to numb the pain. But Matt wasn't in Heat, and he wouldn't be for three weeks. Gil wished that the circumstances were different, that he had courted and claimed Matt properly as a real suitor, but wishing was a waste. He knew they couldn't wait; _he_ couldn't wait. And the truth was: It _was_ going to hurt.

                "Hold onto me," he said instead. He took Matt's hands and wrapped them around his neck. The Omega's fingers felt fragile, like the hollow wing-bones of a small bird. His touch was cold and shy.

                _If you get scared or if it hurts too much_ , _then use me_ , _Matthew. Squeeze me_ , _claw me. I don't care. You can't hurt me. Do whatever you have to._

                "Ready?"

                The pressure Matt's fingers applied was evidence enough that he wasn't ready, but he gave a small head-bob in consent. It was all Gil needed. Instinct took over after that. And once he started, he couldn't stop.

* * *

Matt clenched his teeth. He dug his fingers into the Alpha's shoulders, nails scoring the skin. He tried hard not to make a sound, but Gil's jerking rhythm pulled embarrassingly high-pitched whines and gasps from him. He felt tears bead in his eyelashes, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

                _So this is being mated_ —? he thought, as if distanced from the act.

                At first, it hadn't been so bad. Matt's body had instinctively responded to the Alpha's exploratory touch with fondness, like he was afraid it would. Gil's strong scent and the heat of his healthy, virile body so close, pushed against him skin-to-skin was invigorating; arousing. He had had to clench his jaw and claw at the bed-sheets to keep quiet as Gil touched him. He had had to keep his gaze focused on the window, otherwise afraid that the Alpha would see desire in his eyes; red-faced and biting his lip. Gil's hands were callused, blunt tools that he used to tease the young Omega. And his body was so invitingly warm. It had taken willpower not to arch up into Gil and press himself more firmly against that delicious Alpha body. _Oh_ , _gods. I can't help it._ It was like being in pre-Heat, but worse, because instead of fantasy the object of his body's erotic desire was right there in front of him. His whole figure shivered in delight.

                It was then he made the mistake of turning his head and looking at Gil, and— _Oh_ , _gods_! _He's so handsome_!

                Soft sighs fell from his parted, puckered lips involuntarily. _I want you to touch me. Stop teasing me_ _and give me more. A bit harder. A bit faster. A bit rougher. Gilbert_ —!

                At the last minute—before he could call-out the Alpha's name—he bit his tongue, and a long, desperate whine escaped him instead.

                "Matthew." His voice was a husky growl that sent a shiver of pleasure down Matt's spine. "Hold onto me," he ordered. And Matt did.

                "Ready?"

                Matt nodded.

                Then the pleasure was gone, replaced by a sharp pain as Gil's hard, wet cock penetrated him deep.

                The force of it hurt. It was intrusive; it felt foreign. His body twitched and flinched helplessly in reply, trying to accommodate the Alpha's thick girth, but the pain of being stretched and torn prevented it. Matt's head spun. His heart pounded and his breaths were laboured, trying to keep pace with Gil's rhythm. The Alpha's weight pressed down on him, undulating back-and-forth as he grunted in effort, as if guided by some powerful primal force. A piercing pain made Matt's eyes fly open and he cried-out: " _A-ah_!" but Gil didn't stop; didn't slow. Matt clawed at the Alpha's back in retribution, his body clenched as he hugged tight. He pressed his face against Gil's shoulder and immediately felt the Alpha's wiry arm snake around his lower-back, supporting him. He could hear Gil's heavy, wet breaths in his ear; the strong drumbeat of his heart. His body was hot and sweaty, so hard, and corded with lean athletic muscle that moved lithely beneath his glistening skin. A whisper of something—pleasure, maybe—seized Matt, making him feel fleetingly lightheaded, but it was gone too soon. Tears beaded in the Omega's eyes as the Alpha reached climax. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his mouth to Gil's skin to muffle his voice. The Alpha's swollen cock jerked finitely and released inside of him, filling the Omega with the hot, sticky seed of his pups.

                " _Hah_ —!" Gil gasped, short-of-breath. Then he sighed deeply in satisfaction and collapsed atop Matt. Matt managed to bite back a strangled sound and fell silent, panting. Trapped.

                It felt like forever before Gil lifted his weight off of Matt, his sticky cock sliding out. He took care to unclench Matt's hands, fingers stiff and nails biting into the Alpha's back. Without Gil's support, Matt fell back onto the pillows, shaking uncontrollably. He was already starting to feel cold again, especially when Gil rolled clumsily to the opposite side of the bed, taking his body-heat with him. He laid on his back, his chest heaving. Matt stared at the ceiling, afraid to make a sound. The atmosphere was tense and smelled of salty Alpha semen, sweat, and blood, the scents of post-mating. It was quiet, except for their deep, measured breaths.

                _That's it_ , _it's done. I've finally been mated_. _I'm pair-bonded for real this time._ _I belong to the West now. I belong to Captain Gilbert Beilschmidt._

                Matt rolled onto his side, wincing. His body hurt. It didn't feel like his anymore, not when there was Alpha semen coating his insides, glazing his thighs, mixed with his own blood. Tears flooded his eyes; his lip trembled. He felt cold and exposed. Overwhelmed. He wanted more than anything to be held, to feel solid arms wrapped securely around him, reassuring him. He wanted to feel safe.

                Gil rose swiftly from the bed, his weight gone from the mattress. Matt heard him shuffling about in search of his clothes, tugging on each old article meticulously; wordlessly. He was halfway to the bedchamber door before he stopped. Matt heard his footsteps on the floorboards move back-and-forth in indecision. He stayed still and silent and waited tensely to see what Gil would do. He felt hopeful when the Alpha returned to the bed, momentarily reassured. But it was short-lived. Gil grabbed a heavy blanket and draped it courteously over Matt's half-naked, shivering figure, then, feeling satisfied and fulfilled, he retreated. Matt heard the bedchamber door close behind him. He heard Gil's footsteps fade as he descended the stairs, leaving his Omega-mate alone.

                Matt sniffed sadly. He had never felt worse to be proved right. The Alpha had promised to protect him, but in the end he had mated him and left without a word. Matt couldn't believe that he had dared hope for anything more.

                _I want to go home_ , he thought desperately. He still felt so, so lost. _Dad_ , _Papa_ , _Al... I just want to go home._

In the harsh light of sunset, the newly-mated Omega buried his face in a pillow and cried.

* * *

**WESTERN EMPIRE**

**WILDERNESS**

Al awoke to a heavy shuffling noise. He had not intended to fall asleep, but found himself curled into a defensive ball, his face buried in a pillow that smelled like Ivan. It was dark in the cave. The fire had burned low, the embers glowing softly in the fire-pit. Al's eyes felt heavy, his lashes clumped, as if he had been crying in his sleep. He rubbed at them, uttering a soft sigh as the fog of sleep evaporated. That's when he saw it, a shadow. A very, very large shadow. _Ivan_? he thought, but it wasn't. It was bigger, broader—twice Ivan's size—and covered in a shaggy coat of coarse brown fur. Al's eyes went wide and he sucked in his breath, not daring to make a sound. He stayed perfectly still and watched as the bear's massive claws scraped the ground, its body lumbering through the cave in search of food. It found the dead pheasant and a rack of drying fish. If Ivan had finished mending the basket, the fish would be safely stored out of the bear's reach, but the basket lay broken on the floor, forgotten. Al knew it was the pungent fish smell that had drawn the hungry beast into the cave. The dead fire hadn't frightened it off. Ivan never let the fire die for exactly that reason, to keep predators at bay. But Ivan wasn't there, he had left in a rage. And Al— _foolish_ , _stupid_ , _idiot_ —had fallen asleep and left the fire untended.

                _What should I do_? he panicked, eyes skirting the cave for a weapon.

                The bear finished the fish, licked it maw, and lumbered over to the bed, its nose following a scent. Al closed his eyes, pursed his lips, and clutched the pillow tightly, trying not to shake. He felt the bear's hot, wet breath on his skin, its nose twitching in curiosity. Suddenly, it pawed at Al's body, trying to push him over. Al grunted. It felt like a punch to the side.

                _Go away. Please go away_ —

                A long, rough tongue licked the blood from his leg, having discovered the injury.

                Al was shaking uncontrollably now. Forlorn, he eyed the box in the corner with Ivan's sword tucked inside.

                Then a growl erupted from the cave's entrance, drawing the bear's attention. Al's eyes swiveled and saw Ivan, weaponless, his lips pulled back to expose his bared canines. Al had never seen such large canines on an Alpha before. He spread his arms, trying to make himself look as big and intimidating as possible, but the bear wasn't discouraged. It reared back, away from Al, and shook its head fiercely at Ivan, its jowls flapping. Its roar dwarfed Ivan's, filling the cave. Inadvertently, Al shrieked and covered his head.

                "Run, Al."

                It took Al a second to process Ivan's calm words. Too late, Al screamed. The Alpha ducked sideways, grabbed the discarded hunting-knife, and growled again, provoking the bear to chase him. He drew it away from the bed; away from the petrified Omega. Al watched, wide-eyed in horror as the beast struck at Ivan, who dodged the massive claws by an inch. He stabbed the knife's blade into the bear's hide, but it did nothing except enrage the beast. The bear stood on its hind legs, swiping with its paws. Ivan flew back, struck by a nasty blow. Blood soaked his shirt-front.

                "Ivan!" Al screamed.

                "ALFRED, RUN!" Ivan bellowed.

                Al ran, but in the opposite direction as the entrance. He threw himself clumsily and desperately to the back-wall, hastily retrieving Ivan's sword from the box. It was heavy. The suddenness of its weight unbalanced Al and he fell against the wall, dragging the blade on the floor. _Two hands_ , _then_. Gripping it tight, he hefted it up and charged lopsidedly at the bear. The sword's weight and shape gave him momentum, gravity pulling him forward. Just as the bear lunged at Ivan to deliver a fatal blow, Al thrust the blade deep into its thick neck. The beast's roar drowned in a gurgle of blood. It twitched, staggered. Then it fell down dead, the sword skewering its throat.

                Al, too, staggered and fell to his knees, still shaking. His muscles felt like jelly. Where had that strength come from?

                _Wherever it came from_ , _it's gone now_.

                "I-Ivan—?" he stuttered.

                The Alpha sat against the wall, his broad, bloody chest heaving as he panted. His violet eyes looked luminous as they pierced Al, staring at the Omega in utter disbelief, as if seeing Al anew. He looked from Al to the bear's corpse, run-through with his sword, and his lips parted in awe. Involuntarily, he muttered something quiet in Russia; a curse, maybe. After a minute of stunned silence, he regained his composure, and said:

                "Are you okay?"

                The Alpha's calm voice reawakened Al, shattering the heavy silence, and the young Omega failed to curb the emotion that welled inside of him.

                "Of course I'm fucking okay!" His outburst took Ivan by surprised, loud and high-pitched. Al's big blue eyes were wide. "You—You—You tried to fight that thing bare-handed, you idiot! That's why I'm okay! Because you—You almost got yourself killed!" he shrieked in anger.

                " _Me_?" Ivan balked. " _You_ just killed a fucking bear, Alfred!"

                "I had to! It was going to kill you!" Adrenalin was making him hysterical. "You got hurt..."

                Ivan opened his mouth to argue, but stopped when he saw Al's distress. "It's okay," he said calmly instead. He reached out to the shaking Omega. "Come here, little one. It's okay." Al moved instinctively into the safety of the Alpha's strong arms. "It's over," he said, stroking Al gently. "You're safe now."

                " _We're_ safe now," Al corrected, pressing himself against Ivan's body. He nuzzled the Alpha's neck and face, making a pitiful whining noise that threatened tears. "Are _you_ okay?" he worried.

                "Yes," Ivan replied, hugging Al one-armed. He rested his cheek upon Al's golden crown. "Thank-you for asking."

                "The blood—"

                "Just a flesh-wound," Ivan grabbed Al's investigative hand and held it, squeezed it. "Don't worry about me, little one. I'm okay.

                "I'm sorry I frightened you," he added after a minute of silence, "before, I mean. I lost my temper. I do that sometimes. I don't know why."

                Al could feel Ivan's callused thumb rubbing back-and-forth over the hand he still clasped. It was a meditative motion; for his benefit or Ivan's, Al didn't know. For both, perhaps. He peeked up at Ivan's ashen face then, pale from blood-loss. His violet eyes were half-closed and downcast in shame. His skin was growing cold.

                "I wasn't frightened," Al lied, feeling compelled to reassure the Alpha. He looked so sad. "I'm mean, it's okay. It wasn't just you, I shouldn't have looked at, you know... the box." He flushed in guilt. "I—I'm sorry."

                Ivan closed his eyes. "Me too. I'm sorry, too."

                "Ivan?" Al touched the Alpha's ice-cold cheek. "Hey, you okay? Ivan—? _Ivan_!"

                The Alpha chuckled. "Yes? I told you, it's just a flesh-wound," he said, grinning at Al's concern. "I've just got to patch it, stop the bleeding."

                Reluctantly, he released Al and started for the box of medical supplies he kept handy to tend to Al's leg, but Al pressed a hand to his shoulder to still him. Wordlessly, he fetched the box and then proceeded to doctor the Alpha as best as he could. Ivan's shirt was ruined, so Al took a small folding-blade and simply cut it off of him, revealing the torn flaps of bloody skin underneath. He sucked in his breath, but Ivan's voice calmed him. "It looks bad, but I've had worse," he promised. And, indeed, as Al cleaned the three-tined wound, he saw old scars reveal themselves on Ivan's skin. It was then he realized that he had never seen the Alpha without his shirt before. His torso was a canvas of old wounds, big and small; some smooth, some jagged, some only half-healed. Al tried not to look, but he couldn't help it. He was captivated by those marks, feeling both horror and admiration.

                "Do they... hurt?" he asked, fingers dancing over a long, white scar that began at the Alpha's broad shoulder and vanished behind his back. There were a half-dozen others the same: lashing scars.

                "No, not anymore. They're just... not very pretty."

                "You were a soldier," Al guessed, voicing a long-lived suspicion. "A soldier from where?"

                "The East," Ivan replied soberly.

                "You left?"

                "Deserted." The word stabbed the silence, heavy with shame.

                "Why?"

                Finally, Ivan opened his half-closed eyes and looked at the Omega, who's blue gaze was soft in sympathy but lacking in pity. Ivan was not someone to be pitied, Al thought. He wouldn't have wanted it.

                He said: "How much do you know of the Eastern Empire?"

                "Nothing," Al said honestly. He shrugged. "It's big."

                "Yes, it's big. And it's strong. And it's rotten." As he talked, his gaze shifted and he spoke to the cold fire-pit over Al's shoulder.

                "It's a beautiful place, a cold, brutal beauty," he said nostalgically. "I was born on the coast in the far north, a place as wild as you can imagine, with the open sea and open sky. There was nothing suffocating about it. At night, the sky would glow with light, so bright you didn't need a fire. Have you ever seen the sky lights, Al?"

                Al shook his head.

                "It's said by some that they're apparitions of the gods. Others of a more scientific opinion call it a reflection of the sun, the stars." He shrugged. "I don't care what causes them, only that they're beautiful.

                "It's been eight years since I've seen those lights," he continued, voice sobering. "In the East, military service is mandatory. Alpha-pups from every corner of the Empire are taken at ten-years-old to the Capital, where they begin their training. No exceptions. Eight years ago, when the recruiters came to my village, my sister tried to hide me. She made me stand in a bucket and lowered me into the well behind the house. I was a lot smaller then," he added with a humourless smile. "Then she faced the soldiers by herself. I was afraid. I clung to the rope and I listened to my older sister argue, telling them I'd gone. I heard them ransack the house. Then I heard my younger sister scream. I couldn't take it. What sort of Alpha lets his Omega-sisters protect him? So I yelled. I yelled: _Here_! _I'm here_! over and over again until they heard me. When they pulled me up, I saw my sisters crying. I saw my older sister's bruised face. She glared at me, angrier than I had ever seen her.

                "That was the last time I _ever_ saw her. The recruiters took me to the Capital with dozens of other Alpha-pups and I never saw either of my sisters again."

                "Can't you go back to your village?" Al asked, hoping his voice didn't betray him. Ivan's confession reminded him of Matt, and he wondered sadly if he would ever seen his twin-brother again. "Aren't they still there?"

                "No. I did return once, but they were gone.

                "In the Capital," he resumed his narrative, "Alpha-pups live in the army barracks. I shared a room with sixty others. We shared everything: beds, bowls, clothes, nothing belonged to us. As part of our training, we were made to do the menial tasks the soldiers didn't want to do. Omegas aren't allowed in the barracks, so we did all of the cooking, the cleaning, the washing, the mending. We tended to the soldiers needs. Hierarchy was beaten into us. They never let us forget that we were the bottom. Obedience and discipline are the two pillars of the Eastern Army."

                Ivan paused, and Al intuitively knew that he was remembering the bite of each disciplinary lash.

                "Alpha-pups live in the barracks for five years, training. By the time they come-of-age, they're deemed ready to see battle. They're also deemed ready to meet their Omega-mate. In the East, mates are prearranged by the State. As Alpha-pups train, their skills are under constant assessment, so the State can match them to a compatible Omega in order to breed the strongest pups. Most pups meet their mate for the first time at fifteen-years-old. Each couple is given three months leave before the Alpha must return to the barracks for duty. By then the Omega is supposed to be pregnant. Most assignments last from six to eight months, if you're lucky. _If_ the Alpha survives those months, then he is given another three months leave to meet his newborn pup and impregnate his Omega again. And—repeat," Ivan said tonelessly. "This goes on until the ten years of mandatory service are up, at which time the Alpha is discharged from the military and allowed to go home to the family he barely knows."

                "That sounds horrible," Al criticized. He scrunched his nose. "I mean, you don't even choose your own mate? What if you hate each other?"

                Ivan shrugged. "It's not a perfect system, but it's not supposed to be. It's supposed to breed strong soldiers, which it often does. By the time they come-of-age, most people are resigned to it; there are few alternatives, after all. Not everyone agrees with it, of course. Some try to fight it, but the State is not something that you can fight. You can't escape it. Not unscathed, anyway."

                "Is that why you left?" Al guessed, remembering that Ivan had left the East at fifteen-years-old.

                "Yes, that's why I finally left.

                "I never wanted to be a soldier," he admitted. "They told me I was strong. They praised me and told me that if I didn't make a mistake I'd be rewarded with a choice Omega someday. I obeyed my orders. I said _Yes_ , _sir_! when I wanted to say _Fuck you_! I was a good soldier, but I've never had the disposition for it.

                "I was eleven the first time I was taken on campaign. After an embarrassing defeat in the South, the Tsar was desperate for a victory, so he sent the Reserves—us, new recruits—to attack the West. We were ordered to take the fort and leave no survivors. Kill everyone. I couldn't do it and I was punished for it. The next time I saw battle, it was just a skirmish. We outnumbered the Westerners two-to-one, victory was definite, but I froze. And again I was punished. The third time, I acted on impulse. One of my bedmates—a pup from the Capital—was injured, covered in blood, and I acted without thinking. I stabbed the Western soldier from behind, like a coward. It didn't save my friend. He died of blood-loss, but I was praised for my initiative, my _courage_ ," he spat. "They praised me. They patted my back and gave me a drink and hot food and let me sit by the fire. I was the first Alpha-pup of my year to kill an enemy, and—I won't lie—I felt connected to the soldiers just then, no longer an outsider; no longer just a pup. The acceptance, the affection they showed me was more than I had expected. It was intoxicating.

                "So I did it again and again and again, just to see their smiles. Nobody had ever been so proud of me before. I was very small when my parents died, so I'd never had an Alpha-parent in my life. My sister had always been soft. I'd never had to earn her approval. But those soldiers... that's all it was. If I did something good, I was praised; if I failed to impress them, I was ignored. It played with my head, the back-and-forth. I was only twelve; thirteen, by then. And I wasn't even supposed to be there."

                "That tinder-box," said Al cautiously. "It's filled with trophies, isn't it?"

                Ivan's eyes flickered to the box in the corner, then he covered his face with a hand. It took him a while before he spoke. Al thought that he had gone too far, but eventually Ivan said:

                "I didn't want to forget them." His voice was very quiet. "I didn't want to become someone who lost count of his kills. Who didn't care. I thought"—his voice broke; he swallowed—"it's not right to just let them be forgotten."

                Tenderly, Al took Ivan's free hand, which was shaking badly. He squeezed it, and Ivan squeezed back so hard Al felt his bones shift. It hurt, but he didn't pull back.

                So soft, barely a whisper, Ivan said: "There was this Omega once. He was small, maybe five-years-old." The words got stuck in Ivan's throat, but he soldiered on. He couldn't seem to stop. "He was still clutching his doll when I found him. It was just a little thing, you know?" Vaguely he gestured a size, spreading his thumb and forefinger. "He was covered in blood. I-I tried to make it stop, I did, but I think I made it worse. I-I scared him. He was s-so s-scared. He was crying for his mother, s-s-suffering, choking to death. He looked s-s-so scared, I just—I-I—I just—"

                A tear rolled down Ivan's cheek. Al brushed it off. He released the Alpha's hand and cupped the sides of his face. His violet eyes met Al's for a moment, shining with unshed tears.

                "I cut his throat," Ivan confessed. "I made the suffering stop. And I took his doll, such a little thing. I hated myself for a long time. I still do."

                "No, please don't say that," said Al softly, rubbing Ivan's cheeks and neck with his fingers. He felt desperate, as if experiencing Ivan's pain second-hand. The Alpha reached up and placed his hand over Al's, pressing it closer. He exhaled and his body shuddered and he leant into the Omega's soothing touch. His eyes closed, lashes wet.

                "I was fifteen, then," he continued bravely. "I knew what would happen when I returned to the Capital. They would give me an Omega to mate, to breed, but..." He shook his head. "All I could think of was that poor Omega-pup, so small. I couldn't do it. What if my mate gave birth to an Alpha-pup, and he was made to do what I had done? What if my Omega-mate hated me for it?" he added, repeating Al's query. "So I ran. I deserted the Eastern Army. I deserted my comrades, my home, and I ran away. I never expected to survive. I didn't want to."

                Slowly, he opened his eyes. "I've never told anyone that," he admitted. "There was no one to tell."

                "Do you feel any better?" Al asked gently.

                "That depends." Nervously, Ivan licked his lips. He held Al's hand. The heartbreak in his eyes was crushing. "Do you hate me now, Al?"

                Al's heart swelled. The pain on Ivan's handsome face was so raw and honest that it hurt. Stripped of armour, he looked so vulnerable, scared even. In his violet eyes, Al no longer saw a predator, but the tender soul of the pup he had once been; the heart he still had. _Hate you_? he thought, absently stroking the Alpha's white cheek. It was absurd. In proof, he leant forward and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to Ivan's lips.

                "No," he whispered. "I think I love you."


	16. Lost Boys – Chapter Seven

**THE LOW COUNTRIES**

Arthur, _chéri_."

                Arthur felt Francis' long, warm fingers gently petting his head. He knew his Alpha-mate's touch, even half-asleep. Groggily, he opened his eyes. His head ached. He was lying on a daybed in front of a roaring fire in the tower-house. Francis was kneeling in front of him, looking pale and haggard. His beautiful blue eyes were ringed with dark circles of fatigue.

                "I fell asleep," Arthur said softly.

                "Yes, you did, _chéri_. I'm glad." Francis' smile was kind, but thin. It was weary, like his voice, which was raw, as if he had used it to capacity, calling-out; screaming for his pups. His cheek was rough at Arthur's touch, unshaved. Francis was beautiful. He rarely looked sloppy or underdressed; he rarely slouched or dragged his feet; his smile, his eyes were rarely bereft of sparkle. But in the fire's unapologetic glow, Francis finally looked his age. He looked old and tired, and Arthur bet that he looked the same. Over the Alpha's shoulder, he could see the Low-Landers, like refugees. Alphas had claimed plots of floor and wide ledges for their families to sleep on. The Clan Leader's guards had issued everyone a bed-roll, and now the expanse of floor looked like the pelt of a great slumbering beast. There was only one large rose window too high to reach, letting in pale sunlight near the roof. Arthur guessed at the time, but he had lost track of the days. How long had he been imprisoned here, forced to wait and worry while the Alphas searched the Low Countries for his lost pups? How long had he sat there on the daybed, reserved for he alone, a guest, staring hatefully into the communal fire's flames?

                "I want to go with you! Please, take me with you!" he had begged Francis. How could he do nothing while his pups remained lost? More than anything—anyone—he wanted to search for them. But Francis refused.

                "No, Arthur. It's not safe. You'll only slow us down. I can't search for our pups if I'm worried about you."

                Arthur knew he was right. He knew that he was too slow, too weak; he didn't have an Alpha's sense of smell; he couldn't track. He would only be a burden to the search party. But he still resented Francis for leaving him behind every day. That is, until Francis returned each night long after sundown, filthy and exhausted, and completely forlorn. Empty-handed. He and Scott would have stayed out longer, but the Low-Landers wisely corralled them back each and every night, insisting that they needed  food and rest, especially if they were going to go even farther the next day.

                "It's too dangerous to be out after sunset," they said. But all Arthur heard in their wisdom was cowardice.

                _If it's too dangerous for full-grown Alphas_ , _then how much more dangerous is it for my pups_?

                He growled and grimaced at the Low-Landers' kindness. He was sinister and ungrateful, and he wished more than anything that they would snarl back, but they didn't. They were sympathetic, blaming his foul mood on the awful tragedy that had befallen he and his family. The other Omegas pestered him to eat and rest, trying to take care of him. They spoke softly and respectfully, even when Arthur snapped. He wanted a fight. If his brothers had been there, they would have fought with him. Owen and Liam and Patrick wouldn't have passively pat his head and said _there-there_ ; they would have barked and growled and told him to wipe the tears and snot from his face; show a little dignity; don't give up hope. That's what Arthur wanted. That's what Arthur needed: strength. Not the soft-spoken and half-hearted words of comfort that the Low-Landers' used. They said things like:

                "It hasn't been too long yet, don't fret."

                "Lars' hunters are the best trackers in the clan, they'll find your pups."

                "It's okay to cry, you know. We all understand."

                Arthur hated them all. He hated them, because how dare they pretend to understand how he felt! No Low-Lander had lost his pups. Their pups were all safe and sound in their Omega-parent's arms. They got to hold and hug and kiss their pups. They got to protect them. But Arthur's arms were empty. And the worst part was—

                _It's my fault. I didn't stop it. I let it happen. I brought them here._

                "Arthur," said Francis soberly.

                Arthur blinked the tears from his eyes. He was tired of crying, so tired.

                "I'm leaving now."

                Arthur nodded, comprehending. He pushed himself forward and kissed Francis, for safety; for good-luck. He didn't know, he just did it every time Francis left. It had become a routine that, superstitious by nurture, he was afraid to break. Afraid of losing Francis, too. Just so afraid. He kissed Francis for a long time. Then he pulled back, releasing his Alpha-mate, feeling the weight of emptiness, and he repeated the same tired request:

                "Find our pups, Francis. Don't come back without them."        

                Francis kissed Arthur's cold hand, and said: "I promise."

* * *

**WESTERN EMPIRE**

**BLACK FOREST FORT**

Gil saw Ludwig and hastily ducked down an ally in retreat, hoping that his younger brother hadn't spotted him.

                "Gilbert!"

                The captain cursed his bad-luck.

                Ludwig's long, strong legs hurried deliberately toward Gil. It was a subconscious march, used to intimidate. (Ludwig had the best marching-gait in the fort.) "Captain," he said, barely bowing his head in respect. Then, at once, the soldier was gone and the concerned younger brother was back; a little confused, a little upset. "Can we please talk about that speech you made yesterday?"

                Gil had been actively avoiding Ludwig since returning to the fort. He resumed it now. "I'd really rather not."

                "Gilbert!" Ludwig growled. His fair cheeks reddened in frustration. "What the fuck is going on?"

                "Not now, Luddy," he said affectionately, checking to ensure that they were alone. He smiled in reassurance. "I've got things to do. We'll talk later—"

                "No." Ludwig's big, meaty hand seized Gil's bicep as he tried to leave. He glared at his older brother. Gil had always envied Ludwig his blue eyes. They looked like the cerulean sky, but today the sky was cloudy. "As Lieutenant, I have no business questioning you," Ludwig acknowledged, "but as your brother, I want to know what the fuck is going on. Tell me now, Gil, before you do something really—" he paused, his nostrils flaring, "—stupid." He sighed in defeat and released Gil, too late. "You mated that Omega." It wasn't a question; it was a fact.

                Gil said: "Yes."

                Ludwig shook his white-blonde head, as if trying to erase the discovery. "Gil, that's illegal! When the Great House finds out that you've taken a mate, you'll be Court Martialed, you know that! You just threw away your entire future!"

                Gil groaned internally. He had enough to worry about already without Ludwig adding to it:

                Matt. The fort. Matt. His Alphas. Matt. Le Roux. Matt. The West, the South. Matt. The war. Matt.

                He thought that he would feel better than this, having mated. Alphas bragged about it, after all. They craved it, talked about how good it felt. But Gil just felt hollow. _Maybe there's something wrong with me_ —? _Maybe I did it wrong_? It sure hadn't felt wrong. It had felt really, _really_ good while doing it. Matt's body was so warm inside. But as soon as he had finished, he had began to doubt himself. _Are Omegas supposed to bleed that much_? He felt sick with guilt. Matt was so small and fragile-looking; his skin bruised so easily. Gil wondered if all Island Omegas were fragile, like Matt. Maybe that's why they never left their isolated homeland, protected by the Channel. Maybe Islanders were supposed to mate Islanders, and Westerners were supposed to mate Westerners. _Maybe I was too big for him_ —? _Or maybe I'm just really lousy at mating._

                _Really_ , _Beilschmidt_? berated his Conscience. _You've got a generations-old war coming to a breaking-point on your doorstep_ , _and all you can think of is your mating performance_?

                Gil clenched his teeth in frustration. It wasn't like him to linger.

                Ludwig was still lecturing, voicing things that Gil already knew.

                "Gil, you broke a vow!" he said heatedly.

                "I also took a vow to protect people!" Gil snapped abruptly, taking Ludwig off-guard. His red eyes narrowed defensively, but Ludwig recovered fast.

                "Protect him? By what, mating him?" Ludwig's tone was saturated with disdain.

                "I did it to save his life—"

                "Oh, don't even try, Gil," Ludwig warned. Gil hated it. He hated the disappointment in his younger brother's sky-blue eyes, as if he thought Gil weak-willed; just another deprived soldier who had leapt at the chance to defile an Omega. The look on Ludwig's face was worse than the threat of Court Martial. It was worse than anything. "Don't dig yourself a deeper hole," he said sternly. "I want to know why you really did it? Why him?"

                Gil opened his mouth, then closed it. He stared at the ground. "I don't know," he admitted.

                Ludwig sighed. After a tense minute of silence, he asked: "What did he say?"

                Gil blinked. "Who?"

                "Your little Omega-mate. After you _saved his life_ ," Ludwig mocked, "what did he say about it? You _did_ talk to him, didn't you?" he added, suspicious when Gil failed to reply.

                "Uh, no—? I left."

                "You _left_?"

                Gil flinched at the volume, the disbelief that burst from Ludwig.

                "So, what then? You just left him alone in your bedchamber? He's just in there feeling abandoned? Probably scared, in pain, crying—?"

                "What? No!" Gil's stomach dropped. "I just... He doesn't want me in there, Lud, trust me. If you had seen the way he looked at me, you'd know. He doesn't want me."

                Ludwig's flushed face had gone from disappointed to horrified in a split-second. Now he was staring at Gil as if studying a new species. (And not a very intelligent one.) He was wide-eyed, his brow creased, his mouth slack. After a minute, he seemed to process Gil's words. "Are you sure?" he asked skeptically. "You're his Alpha-mate now, Gil. It's not something to be brushed aside. Gods, Gil, you're the best strategist I know; how could you think walking away was a good idea? The poor thing has just been mated for the first time, not while in Heat. Do you understand how painful that's supposed to be? And he's young. And he's a foreigner; he doesn't even speak our language. You found him lost and alone in the forest, didn't you? He must be terrified. And you didn't say _anything_? You don't think he wanted to be comforted, or held? You just mated him and then left? I might not know a lot about Omegas, but I do know that you're not supposed to leave them, not after promising to protect them. You're a fucking coward, Gil."

                Gil flinched. That one hurt, because he knew it was true.

                "You're his Alpha-mate," Ludwig repeated angrily. "It's your job to make him feel safe, not abandoned!"

                "I didn't know, okay?" Gil argued. He was panicking now. "I—I don't know what to do with Omegas!"

                "That's because you were never supposed to take one!"

                "Oh, fuck." Gil stumbled back and banged his head against the wall, dejected. "Do you think he hates me?"

                "If he didn't before, he does now," Ludwig guessed. Gil made a strangled sound and continued to bang his head in self-punishment. Ludwig sighed again, anger abating. He shook his head as he watched his older brother, and said: "Great start to mated life, Gil."

                Gil paused. He turned toward Ludwig, a gritty red spot on his pale forehead. "Should I go back in?" he asked.

                "It's a bit late for that now."

                "Then what do I do?" he begged, desperate for advice. He felt helpless for the first time in a very long time, and he hated it.

                "I don't know," Ludwig said, bankrupt of advice. "Just... try not to burn anymore bridges."

                Just then, a bell tolled. It was a dull bong, bong, bong, but Gil felt it reverberate in his head. Needlessly, he said:

                "Le Roux is here."

* * *

Matt was submerged in a reel of twisted dreams. He was running. He was always running. A torrent of water chased him, licking his heels. Its frothing roar became a chorus of battle-cries. It transformed into a tide of soldiers, a host of Alphas in mixes of blue and black-and-white. And red. Spots of red flashed before his eyes. They ran him down and pierced his body with sharp weapons. They mated him, not with their big Alpha cocks, but with long, cold swords; in-and-out. Each thrust stabbed him, tearing his body from the inside-out. And the blood—there was so much blood. Matt was drowning in blood.

                "Matthew, wake up."

                Matt was pulled abruptly from the nightmare. He didn't even remember falling asleep; he just remembered crying. As he awoke, the stabbing pain of sword-thrusts became a throbbing ache in his backside. His legs were curled against his chest, trying to protect himself. He was shivering.

                "Matthew," Gil repeated, shaking the Omega's blanketed shoulder, "wake up. Le Roux is here. It's time."

                _It's time_. Those words filled Matt with dread. Slowly, he forced himself up. His whole body ached, feeling like jelly. He had no strength. He tried to stand, but his legs collapsed beneath him. The Alpha caught him with whip-fast reflexes and held the Omega braced against his chest. Matt clung to Gil with weak, shaking fingers, trying not to cry; trying not to make a sound.

                "Can you walk?"

                "No." Matt's voice was a pitiful whisper. "I don't think so."

                Gil lifted Matt, cradling him in his arms like a newly pair-bonded couple—which, technically, they were. Matt felt Gil's warm, callused hands on his naked thighs. His fingers touched the mess of dried semen and blood, and Matt felt suddenly ashamed.

                "I'm sorry," Gil said quietly. His face was austere. "I'll help you get cleaned up later, but right now there can't be any doubt that you've been mated. I want evidence to show Le Roux."

                Gil's words were cold, but his tone was not. His hands were not.

                He helped Matt pull on his trousers, tied at the waist, and lent the Omega a long coat that Matt hugged like a shield, but otherwise his whole body was unchanged from the mating. He could feel the dried Alpha semen; he could smell it. Even his bed-rumbled shirt was perfumed with Gil's topical sent. Matt tried to tame his curls. He tried to slap some colour into his face, but it was useless. He knew what his bedraggled appearance implied even without the aid of a looking-glass, and so did everyone else.

                Gil left the bedchamber with Matt aloft in his arms. The stone corridor was cold compared to the heat of the room, and Matt pressed closer to Gil's body as the Alpha descended, carrying Matt down the stairs. At the keep's door, he stopped. He asked again: "Can you walk?" And Matt knew that Gil was giving him the chance to preserve a shred of dignity.

                This time, he said: "Yes."

                His feet touched the floor, legs shaking. He took Gil's arm in escort and squeezed it, staying close.

                The instant they left the keep, Matt wanted to duck back inside. The courtyard was swarming with Alphas of the Black Forest Fort, who were guarding a small party of Southerners that included Captain Le Roux. The Southern Alpha's eyes landed on Matt and his nose twitched, lips twisted. Matt read impatience on his face, but he remained in place, conscious of the guards, and careful not to make any sudden movements. Matt recalled what Gil had said about Le Roux being a cautious Alpha, but it wasn't due to fear. In French, he said:

                "Let me see him."

                "It's okay," Gil whispered to Matt. He stopped Matt a few feet from Le Roux and untangled their arms. "I'm right here, I promise." Then he did something that scared Matt: he stepped back, leaving Matt to face the Southerner's scrutiny—the dozens of unfriendly, judgemental eyes—alone.

                Le Roux stepped closer and sniffed at Matt. Matt knew that he was shaking, but couldn't stop. So he kept his head bowed, trying to hide behind his mussed curls. He was grateful for Gil's long coat, until Le Roux said:

                "Take it off, it's not yours. It's soaked in Beilschmidt's scent. I won't be fooled," he warned. But when Matt hesitated, Le Roux grew impatient. "I said _take it off_ ," he snapped, yanking it down. Matt felt the bite of the wind as the coat fell away. He heard Gil growl, but the blue-eyed blonde—the Lieutenant—grabbed his shoulder, stopping his advance. Le Roux ignored them. He got closer, too close. Matt could feel his hot breath. The Alpha sniffed at his hair and neck, then shook his head. "I want proof," he said.

                Before Matt could react, Le Roux reached down and spread the Omega's legs. Matt couldn't help the cry of pain that burst from him, a yelp that echoed in the silent courtyard.

                "If that's not proof, I don't know what is," someone whispered.

                A soft, scared whine left Matt as Le Roux knelt. He dragged his hand over Matt's tender backside, groping it, and grasped his legs. Then he pressed his nose to the inside of the Omega's upper-thigh and breathed in deeply. Matt trembled. It was so humiliating, having an Alpha between his legs in public. He tried not to think about everyone who was watching, witnessing it. He squeezed his eyes closed. It felt like a long time, though; too long. Even Matt's Omega nose could smell Gil's pungent scent on himself. He was saturated in it. An Alpha would have no trouble discerning it. There was no need for such an extensive examination. No need for such a blatant show of disrespect to a rival's Omega-mate, but the Southern captain lingered.

                "Le Roux, enough."

                It was Gil's raspy voice, slow and deep and angry. When the Southerner finally retreated, Matt instinctively turned and saw that several of Gil's Alphas had their hands on him, holding their commander back. Gil was seething. His red eyes looked like hellfire as he glared murderously at Le Roux. He knew he couldn't attack, though. He let his Alphas hold him—grateful for it in the back of his mind—but his calculated self-control was breaking by the second. For how much longer could they restrain their irate commander? The blue-eyed blonde kept a big, solid hand on Gil, squeezing him hard. Louder, Gil growled:

                "Get away. You got your proof, now get away from him."

                Le Roux stepped back, looking dissatisfied.

                Matt didn't care. Freed from scrutiny, he ran straight into Gil's arms and felt them immediately wrap around him. He no longer cared who was watching. Just then, he wanted everyone to disappear except for Gil. He wanted the Alpha to stay with him, hold him. He hugged the Western captain's middle and pressed his forehead to his chest. Gil's heart was beating madly.

                _Don't let go_! Matt thought desperately. _Don't let go_ , _please don't let go_!

                Le Roux clucked his tongue in contempt. "Congratulations on your pair-bonding, Beilschmidt-pup," he said darkly. "I look forward to the Court Martial."

* * *

**WESTERN EMPIRE**

**WILDERNESS**

Al smiled as he watched Ivan's hands, submerged in a basin of water. It reddened as he washed off the bear's blood. The carcass had been skinned and was hanging on a drying-wrack outside of the cave's entrance. Al was feeding the fire nearby, letting the smoke seep into the flaccid hide. It had taken a long time to flesh and skin the beast, and they were only half-finished. It was a long, tedious process. It would be several days before the hide could be treated and tanned, but the vastness of its coat, its thick brown fur, was too valuable to waste. It would make a good rug. Besides that, it was prestigious—not that there was anyone to admire their handiwork. Still, few Alphas could brag that they had killed a bear; and even fewer Omegas. Al couldn't believe the size of the beast. _Did I really kill that thing_? It still felt surreal. He had never seen such a monstrous creature before. (There were no bears on the Isles.)

                Ivan saw Al staring and bit back a grin. "What?" he asked, feigning annoyance.

                "Nothing," Al shrugged. Cheekily, he said: "Just enjoying the view."

                Ivan snorted. He stood too fast and grimaced, his hand going to his wounded chest.

                "Hey, you okay?" Al, too, stood too fast and accidentally hit his left leg on the woodpile. He yelped, hopping.

                Ivan threw his head back and laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that echoed. He held his stomach. Al loved the sound of Ivan's laugh. "Oh, we're a real fearsome pair, aren't we?" the Alpha joked.

                "The very fiercest," Al replied, smiling.

                He cocked his index-finger, requesting that Ivan come closer. The Alpha obliged and, when he was within arm's reach, Al grabbed his shirt and pulled him down into a hungry kiss. It was wet and indulgent. Ivan's lips were warm and his tongue tasted like the mint leaves he liked to chew. His big hand cupped Al's face before moving back, threading the Omega's feather-soft hair. Al moaned.

                "I love how tall you are," he said when they parted.

                "I'm not that tall, little one. You're just small," Ivan countered. He pecked Al's nose, then returned to work.

                Al watched Ivan for a few minutes. Shirtless, Ivan's back muscles rippled as he bent and stretched, collecting tools. His biceps bulged as he effortlessly lifted heavy objects that Al would have strained to drag. The Omega felt a warm sensation stir inside of him. It was familiar, born in his belly and then migrated south. He shifted from foot-to-foot, knees together. He listened to Ivan's heavy, measured breaths; saw the sweat shine on his pearly skin. Absently, he bit his bottom lip, carefully considering. Finally, he plucked up the courage to say what he had wanted to for days.

                "Ivan, can I ask you something?"

                "Hmm? Yes, go ahead."

                "Could you please look at me?" Al asked, feeling himself blush. "It's important."

                Al's tone took Ivan off-guard. It was serious, yet harboured a pinch of doubt. The Alpha stood, wiping his hands on his trouser-legs as he faced Al, rapt now. What could a bear-killer possibly be nervous to ask?

                Al swallowed. "I don't know if you've noticed," he said methodically, "but I've been in pre-Heat for about five days now." It had been five days of Al clinging to Ivan, feeling bare without the Alpha's scent and touch. But Al was an affectionate being by nature; perhaps Ivan didn't know what it meant. "It's very likely that I'll go into Heat tomorrow," he explained, "and I want you to stay with me when that happens."

                Ivan's eyes widened, his pale eyebrows arched in surprise. He tensed.

                "I want you to mate me," Al clarified needlessly. "It's okay if you don't want to be my pair-bonded Alpha. I'm not a very traditional Omega, and I don't care about the law. I don't care if we're together just for a little while, even if it's only once." He blushed redder. "I just want you to  stay with me. I want all of you, Ivan. Is that okay?"

                Ivan stared at Al, stone-cold silent for the longest minute of the Omega's life. Then he said: "No."

                Al's heart plummeted.

                "You may not be a traditional Omega and I may not be a typical Alpha," Ivan said, "but I left the East because I didn't want to pair-bond with an Omega I didn't love. I _want_ to love my mate; I always have. It's not just an alliance, or a contest. Not to me. An Alpha should cherish his Omega-mate, he should love him—"

                Al nodded. He felt stupid. He bowed his head, rejected.

                "—like I'm in love with you, Al."

                Al's head snapped up, wide-eyed. Ivan—the bastard!—was smiling. Al couldn't believe his ears.

                "I love you, little one," he repeated, closing the distance between them. He cupped Al's cheek; Al leant into the gentle touch. The Alpha's violet eyes were soft. "So, no. I won't stay with you tomorrow, not unless I can stay with you forever. I won't mate you once, Alfred Kirkland. Not if I can't be pair-bonded with you. I _want_ to be your Alpha-mate. That is, if you want me."

                "Yes! Yes, I do!" Al gasped. Desperately, he clutched Ivan's shirt-front and pulled him even closer. He felt the Alpha's body-heat, his beating heart. His own heart swelled in reply. Ivan's confession overwhelmed him. He was an Alpha of few words, but he chose every one carefully. He didn't say things he didn't mean. And these were so honest; so deliberate; so simple and straightforward. No lies, no secrets. It hit Al like a bolt of white-lightning and he suddenly felt weak in the Alpha's arms. "Yes."

                "Are you sure? I don't have a home, or a family," Ivan reminded the impulsive Omega. He stroked Al's cheek. "I don't belong anywhere."

                "You belong with me," Al said fiercely. "I've never really belonged, either. Not with the Omegas, and not with the Alphas. But I don't care, not anymore. Not when I'm with you. You and I... let's be outcasts together, okay? Please, Ivan,"—softly now—"I love you. I want you to stay with me forever."

                "I will," Ivan promised, kissing Al. Once, twice. "As long as you want me, little one, I'll never leave your side."

* * *

**WESTERN EMPIRE**

**BLACK FOREST FORT**

The days passed slowly, wasting. And Matt wasted with them. He lived in Gil's bedchamber, sleeping, not because he was tired or ill, but because there was nothing else to do. He slept to fend off boredom. He ate the food and bathed in the water the Squire brought him. He was a young Alpha, the same age as Matt; a respectful, obedient Alpha whom Gil trusted. He visited twice a day, every day. Gil was usually gone by the time Matt woke in the morning and returned long after the Omega had gone to sleep at night. It was seldom that they spent time together. Matt learnt that his new Alpha-mate worked very long hours. He learnt a lot about Gil second-hand from the Squire, who spoke fluent French.

                "Captain Beilschmidt works harder than anyone else," he said. "He's a good Fort Commander, a good Alpha."

                There was admiration in the Squire's voice and in his eyes. He respected Gil—they all did, Matt discovered. They never said it, of course. The Western soldiers were less outwardly affectionate than anyone Matt had ever met (even his uncles), but he could see it in the way they stopped to salute when Gil passed by, their heads bowed; he could hear it in the proud timbre of their voices when they chorused: " _Yes_ , _sir_!"; he knew it in the way they ceased whatever they were doing to accompany Gil, to aid him in a task, or to lend him support. Gil never had to ask twice. He never had to raise his voice. A simple hand signal from the captain could silence the entire fort.

                _They love him_ , Matt realized, watching the courtyard from his narrow window.

                Gil was overseeing a combat practise, studying his Alphas critically. Matt could spot him easily because his silver-white hair gleamed in the pale sunlight. He stood beside the Lieutenant, Ludwig, who was the officer in charge of training. Ludwig was one of the most gifted with a sword, and—if the Squire could be believed—the fort's harshest disciplinarian.

                "He works you to the bone, I swear!" the Squire complained. "But he never makes you do it alone. He's not one of those sadistic officers who watches you suffer, you know? I had to do extra laps once, and right as I was about to collapse the Lieutenant pushed me forward and ran with me. He stayed with me until I was done. He looks big and scary, but he's not heartless. I do believe he's inhuman, though," the Squire added conspiratorially. "No mortal Alpha should be able to push himself that hard without vomiting. It's not natural." He shuddered; Matt laughed.

                He watched Ludwig now, as the Lieutenant barked orders in a deep baritone that dwarfed Gil's.

                Ludwig was Gil's younger brother, and Gil loved him. Matt knew it the instant he was introduced to Ludwig. In the privacy of his bedchamber, Gil's wolfish face had split into an indulgent grin as he ruffled his brother's white-blonde hair. Dismissing formality, he had said:

                "Matthew, this is my little brother, Luddy."

                There was nothing little about Ludwig, though. He was a half-a-head taller than Gil, and broader, with wide shoulders, a barrel-chest, and thick, muscular limbs. He had large, blunt-fingered hands made for hard work, and a stern no-nonsense expression that would have been intimidating if he wasn't being treated to a head-tousle just then. Ludwig frowned at Gil's belittling introduction.

                "Lieutenant Ludwig Beilschmidt," he corrected, inclining his head politely toward Matt, his new brother by mating-law.

                "If you ever need anything and I'm not around, you can trust Lud," Gil had said when Ludwig left. "He'll take care of you, I promise."

                Matt smiled absently as he spied on the brothers, Gil talking with Ludwig as he gestured. Ludwig nodded. He whistled, a loud, shrill sound that harassed Matt's sensitive ears, and the Alphas fell into line. They spoke in German, but Matt read the situation with his eyes. Gil and Ludwig took two wooden practise swords and began demonstrating what it was they intended the soldiers to learn. Every so often, one of them would pause and point out something of significance, like his partner's footwork, or proper attacking posture. Gil talked a lot and used Ludwig as a model. In return, the Alphas all listened intently, nodding in understanding. But neither were they afraid to ask questions if they got lost. As the lesson continued, nearly every soldier stepped forward to pose a question, unafraid of being teased or reprimanded.

                _That's the mark of a good teacher_ , Matt thought, resting his chin on his folded arms. Ludwig was stern, but not cruel. And Gil—Gil smiled as he talked, praising effort and clever questions. _He likes to teach. And he's good at it_. _His Alphas aren't afraid of making mistakes_ , _because they know Gilbert will cover for them. He asks for everything they've got and then makes up the balance himself. He becomes what they lack_ , _whatever they need. It's no wonder he's always exhausted._ Matt didn't know if that made Gil a good Fort Commander or not, but it did make him a good teacher, a good friend. _He's like everyone's big-brother_. _And they absolutely adore him_.

                "It's not how you treat your equals or superiors, but how you treat your inferiors and those in your care that shows your true character," Scott had said once.

                Watching Gil now, Matt believed it.

* * *

Gil and Matt didn't talk much. If they did, it was Gil asking Matt if he needed anything. They slept on opposite sides of the bed, and Gil hadn't tried to touch Matt since the Omega had recovered from being mated. Gil awoke early, before sunrise, before the breakfast bell, and he returned late at night. He let Matt have the bedchamber to himself, allowing him to do and have whatever he wanted, provided he stayed inside. "It's not safe outside," he said ambiguously. He never elaborated, and Matt never asked. He decided—since Gil trusted his Alphas—that it was due to the fort's deadly purpose. _I'm too fragile to be out there amongst all of that dangerous Alpha work_ , he thought in resignation. It was nothing that he hadn't heard before. In a way, Gil reminded Matt a lot of his family, especially Francis. They looked nothing alike, and they acted nothing alike, but there was a familiarity in Gil's protectiveness that made Matt miss his Alpha-father. But unlike Francis, when Matt cried Gil left him alone. Matt had begun to suspect that tears made the Western captain very uncomfortable; he never seemed to know what to do. He also suspected that the Black Forest Fort had never witnessed so many tears before Matt's arrival. Alphas were tough, after all. Alphas did not cry.

* * *

One day, born of boredom (and sanitary necessity), Matt took a needle and bobbin of thread and re-stitched the entire bed mattress, which was coming undone at the seams; it coughed-up feathers whenever he or Gil shifted in bed. Then he asked the Squire to bring a washboard and a tub and scrubbed the bed linens until they were threadbare, but clean. He soaked and starched them, hating the feel of the dirty sheets. They hadn't been cleaned since Gil had mated him. If the Alpha noticed, however, he didn't voice it. He merely fell into bed that night exhausted as always. He stayed on his side and he didn't move an inch.

                The next day, Matt took liberties. Nothing in the bedchamber was off-limits to him—not that there _was_ very much—so he dusted, scrubbed, and polished everything in sight. When he reached the dusty bookshelf, he tossed the contents onto the bed and began re-shelving the books according to size and genre, but stopped halfway. Gil's books were not fictions, like Arthur's; they were mostly instructional. There were a lot of illustrated manuals about warfare, and one outdated medical text, but Matt was more interested in the language books he found. Shoved to the back of the bookshelf, hidden, were a half-dozen French and English books, all of them stuffed with old worksheets graffitied with Gil's messy scrawl. For every practise phrase in French or English, there was a German accompaniment (and lots of angry scores and scribbles). _Is this how he taught himself French and English_? Matt wondered. The practise sheets were wrinkled and full of mistakes, but they revealed the Alpha's dedication.

                Intrigued, Matt took the collection to the bed and spread them out.

                Long after dark, Gil returned, surprised to find Matt still awake. "What are you doing?" he asked, recognizing his old workbooks. Matt thought he saw a blush on Gil's cheeks, but it was hard to tell in the dim candlelight.

                "I'm learning German," he replied, showing Gil.

                "Why?"

                "Because you speak German and so does everyone else. I might as well, too. I am in the West, after all."

                Gil cocked a silver-white eyebrow, unconvinced.

                Matt sighed. "I'm bored."

                Gil nodded at that, satisfied. He undressed and flopped gracelessly down onto the bed, but instead of going straight to sleep, he inched toward Matt, spying on the Omega's neat notes. "That's wrong," he tapped the parchment. His fingernails were dirty. "It needs an accent, otherwise it's a different sound. And this"—he dragged his opalescent finger, nicked with scars—"you've written it backwards." Matt corrected his mistakes under Gil's scrutiny, pleased to have a little guidance. German, he decided, was not as easy as French. "I think I have a French-German"—Gil yawned deeply, exposing razor-sharp canines—"dictionary here somewhere, if you want. I'll find it for you tomorrow..."

                Then he was asleep: pale head resting on Matt's pillow, his mouth hanging ajar, passed-out like a young pup.

                Matt pulled a blanket up over Gil's shoulders and continued to study.

* * *

From then on, Gil began speaking to Matt in German. "It's good practise," he argued. They started to exchange simple sentences, like greetings; then Gil promoted Matt to questions. He started refusing to reply to any requests Matt made in English, grinning playfully while he waited for Matt to translate his request into German. Often, it took a while and frustrated Matt. He would glare at the smug Alpha as he flipped rapidly through the dictionary Gil had given him. But constructing a comprehensible sentence was only half the battle, according to Gil. Gilbert Beilschmidt was something of a secret perfectionist. "You're pronouncing it wrong," he would say, smiling, making Matt want to chuck the heavy dictionary at him. Once, he did. His usually dormant temper awoke with vengeance and he threw the dictionary at Gil without hesitance, without thought. Gil ducked, and a cold fear instantly seized Matt. His face paled and his eyes went wide in regret. "I–I'm sorry!" he panicked, afraid of the Alpha's reaction. But Gil wasn't listening. He was clutching his stomach and wiping tears of laugher from his eyes. That's when Matt discovered Gil's sense of humour.

                "I was starting to worry about you, you know," Gil admitted, grinning at Matt. "But I'm glad. My _schatz_ has a bit of a temper."

                "What does _schatz_ mean?" Matt asked, for the umpteenth time.

                But Gil only shrugged. "Look it up," he said cheekily, and then walked off.

                Matt only asked because _schatz_ seemed to be a slang-term, because it wasn't in the dictionary. And nobody—not Ludwig, or the Squire—would tell him what it meant. So Matt decided that it was likely a rude word, or an insult—Gil had a rather ripe vocabulary ( _not unlike Uncle Scottie_ )—that he was better off not knowing.

* * *

Gil was not a typical Alpha-mate, but he tried. As Fort Commander he was always busy, the work never-ending, but he never failed to consider Matt. "Are you hungry, sleepy, cold, bored—? Are you feeling okay? Do you want me to stoke the fire? Do you want hot water?" he would ask (usually in procession, like that, before Matt had a chance to answer). It was a mental checklist that Gil went through every morning and evening. Sometimes it flattered Matt; sometimes it annoyed him. If nothing else, Gil was attentive to detail. It was an aspect of his job, after all. But it was obvious that he had no previous experience with Omegas. Every time he asked a question, he was asking for the Omega's guidance, trying to learn. Trying to make up for his lack of knowledge and preparation—or, maybe for something else.

                Gil was not as easy to read as Al, but Matt found himself thinking of his twin-brother when he looked at Gil. They shared the same bawdy sense of humor. Gil liked to joke and tease and play. He was a very physical being, like Al—though not as physically-affectionate—and he liked to tell stories with wild gestures. The kind of stories that made Matt roll his eyes (while trying hard not to laugh).

                Gil was a positive person; not sunny, but durable. The Black Forest Fort was a cold and forlorn place, and his Alphas were tired and afraid, but Gil's pride, his strength, never faltered. When others said: "I can't do it!" Gil always said: "Yes, you can. I know it. I'll help you." He was the last glowing ember of a dying fire, constantly trying to rekindle the flame. But Matt was afraid that all of his effort was useless. Gil was fighting a losing battle and he seemed to be the only one who didn't know it. Matt knew. And Ludwig knew. They were the only two people who ever saw the captain's stress, his exhaustion, his worry, his fear.

                _He's trying to juggle too much_ , Matt knew, feeling something akin to sympathy for the Alpha. _But he's doing the best he can_.

                Matt was ashamed that it had taken him nearly a fortnight to realize it. He was an observant being by nature, but he had been so focused on his own misery that he had neglected to recognize Gil's. So he resolved to do something for Gil that only he—in the whole fort—was capable of doing.

                He was going to take care of him.

* * *

Matthew, _schatz_ , I know how much you like to be clean," said Gil tiredly, "but you've got to stop bothering my Squire to bring you hot water every day. He has other duties besides trudging back-and-forth up the stairs playing serving-boy, okay? Besides, you already bathed this morning!"

                Gil tried to keep a gentle, diplomatic tone, but the Omega's obsession with personal hygiene was exhausting.

                "Yes, I did," Matt acknowledged, "but I didn't bother him today, honestly. I _trudged_ back-and-forth up the stairs myself. And the bath isn't for me, it's for you."

                Gil stared, taken aback. Skeptically, he eyed the brass washtub, which sat in the middle of the bedchamber, steaming with hot, scented water. Then he looked at Matt, who looked anxious.

                "Are you trying to imply something?" he joked, trying to ease the tension.

                He stepped farther into the bedchamber, closing the door behind him. He stripped off his coat and grimaced; his whole body ached. Absently, he started to toss his coat onto the tabletop, but he stopped when he saw it set. That's when Gil noticed that the bedchamber's scent was different. It didn't smell like dust and musk, or his own stale sweat; it smelled clean. It _was_ clean. And it was ordered. His spare clothes were washed and folded on the bed. The bed itself looked neater and less lopsided. His red gaze swivelled, sweeping the room, inspecting the territory that was no longer just his. He looked at the table again. He could smell the fat, juicy scent of boiled sausages; his favourite. And beside the meal sat a frothy beer. His mouth watered; his stomach growled. Finally, he looked at Matt.

                "What's all this?"

                "An apology," said the Omega shyly. He, too, looked clean and well-groomed. He had brushed his angel curls for the first time in—well, since Gil had known him.

                "A— _what_?"

                Matt inhaled, then spoke. His speech sounded preconceived, as if he had rehearsed it beforehand. He said:

                "Gilbert, you saved my life—twice—and I never even thanked you for it. I'm sorry. You didn't have to rescue me. You could've walked away; it would've been simpler. I've caused you nothing but trouble, and yet you've been so kind. You've risked yourself to protect me and I've done nothing but cry and complain. I'm so sorry. I've been such a horrible Omega-mate to you, but that changes now. If you let me, I'll take care of you properly. I will. I want to repay your kindness. I'll be a better Omega-mate, I promise. So please, _please_ forgive me."

                It took Gil a minute to realize that he was staring stupidly at the Omega, slack-jawed.

                "Forgive _you_?" he repeated in recovery.

                Matt stared hopefully at him; violet eyes a little sad, a little scared.

                "I think you're confused," said the Alpha. "It should be me apologizing to you."

                Matt shook his head dismissively. "Nothing that's happened to me is your fault, Gilbert."

                "Really? _Nothing_?"

                Matt bowed his head, curls tumbling. He blushed. "I don't resent you, Gilbert. I'm grateful for your—"

                "Cock? Sorry," he added hurriedly, feeling stupid. He half-smiled in appeasement. "I make jokes when I'm uncomfortable."

                Matt laughed softly in reply. It was the sweetest sound Gil had ever heard.

                "I don't resent you, either," he said seriously, in case the Omega doubted it. Matt struck him as someone who was good at making excuses, more likely to blame himself than someone else.

                "I'm glad," Matt said, softer still. He peeked up at Gil through a veil of pale-blonde curls.

                Gil's stomach flipped. He remembered what those pale locks felt like, like the finest silk. Silk and satin, that's what Matt felt like; like luxury. It had only been a fortnight since Gil had mated Matt, but already he found himself craving the Omega—always at the most inappropriate times, too. Lust made it impossible to focus on his work. The mere memory of Matt's body, it's internal heat, it's slick wetness, was enough to make the Alpha hard. It was torturous knowing that he couldn't quench it. Nothing he did to relieve himself came remotely close to the feel of being inside Matt. _I'm a fucking pervert_ , he thought. How many times had he had to leave the bedchamber before the Omega noticed his state? Thinking about him was one thing, but being so close to him and being unable to touch him was unjustly cruel. How many nights had he pretended to be asleep, lying with his eyes closed, perfectly immobile, and clenching his fists beneath the blankets every time Matt shifted in bed? Some nights, it took all his self-discipline not to roll on top of Matt and take him—mate him—again.

                And yet, here they were. And Matt was apologizing to _him_.

                "Please," said the Omega gently, inoffensively. "You're tired and sore, Gilbert. I can tell by the way you keep rolling your shoulders. You've been working so hard, you should relax. Let me help you relax," he said, indicating the washtub. It _did_ look inviting.

                "Okay," he agreed. "If it'll make you happy—"

                "It will." Matt's face brightened. He looked relieved.

                Matt smiled as he waited for Gil to undress, collecting the discarded articles as the Alpha dropped them. He hovered like an Omega-parent supervising a pup. Gil found it a bit annoying—it was disconcerting to have someone's rapt attention whilst naked—but mostly he found it funny. He climbed into the washtub and let his body submerge in the hot water. It felt good. It smelled good. Gil didn't know what Matt had scented the water with, but it was a subtle fragrance that pleased his sensitive nose. He sighed contentedly as he leant back as instructed. It had been a long time since he had had a bath that was more than a washcloth and a basin of cold water. _What's the point in indulging myself_? he had thought. Soldiers were supposed to be hard, tough-fibred; that's what Vater had taught him. Any kind of self-indulgence was a waste of time. But as the tension eased from his aching body, Gil began to reconsider. When Matt—his beautiful Omega-mate—smiled at him and batted those pretty, long eyelashes, handing him a frothy mug of beer, Gil grinned in self-satisfaction and completely surrendered to the luxury.

                "This is the part of being pair-bonded I'm actually good at," Matt joked self-consciously.

                _Oh_ , _I can think of something better_ , Gil thought—then stopped immediately. He _was_ stark-naked, after all.

                "It's not necessary, you know," he said instead. "I've been taking care of myself for a long time."

                "Have you—?" Matt's tone was teasing. He fingered Gil's old shirt in example, then tossed it into a basket.

                "Hey, I need that!" Gil insisted. "If I go outside naked they'll all laugh at me." He pouted.

                Matt covered his mouth, laughing.

                "They're filthy and full of holes, they're rags!" he criticized.

                "They're fine—"

                "My Alpha-mate," Matt said with mock-seriousness; he cocked his head and his voluptuous hip, "is _not_ going to go strutting about the fort in rags."

                Gil feigned insult. "I do not strut!" he said, parrying Matt's tone with mock-horror.

                "Oh, yes you do," Matt said. He was laughing freely now; such a sweet sound. Brazenly, he mimicked Gil's walk, then covered his face with his hands.

                "Oh, you're a cheeky little thing, aren't you? If I weren't confined to this tub, I'd—"

                Matt flinched; the laughed died abruptly.

                "—tickle you."

                Matt relaxed.

                _Well_ , _that's the dumbest thing I've ever said_ , Gil thought in self-degradation. Originally, he was going to say "smack you", but he was afraid that the Omega would take it literally. That's all he needed: for Ludwig to think that he was a horny pervert _and_ physically abusive. It was truly incredible, though, how defensive Matt's posture instinctively got when he thought he had done something wrong. _It's a reflex_ , _but I wonder why_? Gil wondered if Matt _had_ been abused in the past. Briefly, he considered the Omega's family members as potential culprits, but then he remembered Matt's heartfelt defense of Francis' innocence and he discarded the unhappy thought. Nobody who was hiding abuse looked the way Matt had when talking about his Alpha-father. _He's just timid_ , he decided, dissatisfied. _He hasn't got much self-confidence_. _He doubts himself—and everyone else. He doesn't trust._

                Gil watched Matt as the Omega puttered ceaselessly around the bedchamber, tidying and catering. Frankly, it made Gil dizzy. But Matt looked significantly more at-ease when he was busy, focused on a menial task. He seemed to know what he was doing and took comfort in the repetition. He hung a towel close to the fireplace hearth, warming it for Gil; then refilled the Alpha's empty beer-mug. He did it habitually, absentmindedly. As if he had been bred to do it. Again, Gil wondered about Matt's home-life and what kind of Alphas he lived with. _Lucky ones_ , he thought, feeling both indignant and jealous. _I bet they've never had to lift a finger to do anything for themselves in their whole lives._

                "Here, they're clean," said Matt, offering Gil a shirt and trousers as he hauled himself out of the washtub.

                "Thanks."

                "Does this mean you forgive me?" Matt asked after a minute.

                Gil had bathed and drank and eaten and was tugging on the freshly-ironed clothes that Matt had given him, but the Omega still looked worried, as if he thought it was all inadequate payment.

                Gil hated that look.

                "I told you," he said gruffly, "there's nothing to forgive—"

                "Please."

                For the second time that night, Gil was taken aback by the Omega's tone. It was unexpectedly unyielding. Gil paused, only half-dressed. Matt was staring at him intently; not challenging, but determined. He looked misleadingly timid—small and pale and soft—but a secret strength lived in those violet eyes, a fierce pride that Gil hadn't seen since he had found Matt in the forest. That look, that hidden quality, is what had kept Matt alive. It was something that Gil recognized: the look of a survivor. _Your body might be soft and fragile_ , _but your will is not_ , he thought, staring keenly at Matt. Just then, he felt something for the Omega that was deeper than lust or obligation. He felt respect. Matt looked sad and helpless and—in truth—it was alluring; a treasure in need of guarding. _My treasure_. But the look in those violet eyes revealed something more. There was something feral about Matt that Gil liked. A lot. _He's a fighter_ , _a survivor._ _He's got the heart of a warrior_. Slowly, the Alpha's lips curled into a smile.

                "Okay," he said, tugging on the shirt. He looked Matt directly in the eye, and said: "You win. I forgive you."

                There was something satisfying, almost arrogant, in the Omega's receptive smile. "Thank-you," he said.

                Gil inclined his head, like a gentleman accepting a lost duel. Then he turned his back, but Matt wasn't done.

                "Come here," he said. He pointed to the bed.

                Gil cocked an eyebrow in curiosity, but obeyed. He sat down and stretched his long, languid body, relaxing in a cloud of pillow, but jolted suddenly when he felt Matt's hands on his neck. His eyes flew open—he hadn't realized he had closed them—and he tipped his head back, blinking at the Omega beside him. Gently, Matt repositioned Gil so the Alpha's back was exposed. Then he applied pressure to Gil's muscles, rolling his delicate fingers over the tense knots, and Gil involuntarily arched his back in reply. A groan escaped him. It felt so good.

                "Where did you learn to do this?" he asked, eyes rolled back in ecstasy.

                "My Dad taught me. My Alpha family members are all hunters; their bodies are their livelihood, so they need to be taken care of. That's what my Dad told me. Alphas need to relax. I used to practise on my poor uncles. I gave one of them a welt by accident once. But I think I've gotten better since then."

                "Hmm? Oh, that's nice," Gil sighed. His brain was foggy, unfocused. His body felt limp in Matt's arms. "This much pampering isn't good for my reputation, you know. They're going to think I've gone soft."

                "Maybe," Matt allowed. His fingers roamed over the Alpha's shoulders, which were corded with lean athletic muscle; they rubbed the column of his strong neck, and the base of his spine; they grazed his collarbone, and pressed firmly down on his biceps and pectorals, exploring the defined planes of flat, rock-hard muscle. "Maybe," he repeated in a husky whisper, "but only on the inside."

                Gil cracked open one red eye and grinned. "Maybe," he mimicked Matt's tone, "I should make you apologize more often, Matthew."

                For a split-second Gil thought that he had insulted the Omega, taking the joke too far. But this time Matt just smiled, those feral eyes sparkling with laughter.

                "You can call me Matt if you want to," he said shyly; hopefully.

                "Matt." Gil liked the taste of it. In reply, he reached up and took Matt's hand. He shook it. "Nice to meet you, Matt. I'm Gil."

* * *

**WESTERN EMPIRE**

**WILDERNESS**

Al rearranged the lay of the blankets on the bed, folding and kneading the fabric, the fur. He smoothed the surface in a methodical way, then frowned, cocked his head, and restarted. He stacked and un-stacked pillows, then lay them all flat and draped one of Ivan's old shirts over top. _That's better_ , he thought, wiping his sweaty brow. He was flushed with his oncoming Heat. He could feel it budding and blossoming inside of him. It wouldn't be long now, which is why he felt compelled to nest. It was his most Omega-like quality, Arthur said. Al might have rejected typical Omega tasks and hobbies, but he was meticulous about his space, especially while in Heat.

                "Are you okay?" Ivan asked, watching Al fan himself with a hand.

                "Yes, it's just hot in here. Don't you find it too hot?"

                "No."

                Al caught Ivan's eye and knew that he knew. In proof, the Alpha said: "Relax, little one. It'll be okay—"

                "No, no it won't." On his hands-and-knees, Al tugged at the bedding, rooting it from bottom to top. "It has to be right," he muttered, feeling frustrated.

                "What does?"

                "The nest!" Al said, harsher than he intended. He felt anxious, worried that it wouldn't be ready in time. He was feeling more uncomfortable, more tense by the second. "It has to be right. It's important that it's cozy, uh... not a mess, you know? It has to feel safe," he babbled, trying to explain. None of his Alpha-relatives had ever understood it either. Arthur did; Matt did. But Alphas were irritatingly clueless sometimes. "It won't be like other times, because it won't be just me. It needs to be big enough. It needs to be soft enough. It needs more... bounce."

                "Bounce—?"

                "Yes, exactly. Bounce."

                Ivan blinked at Al as the Omega punched the bedding with both fists, gauging its 'bounce'. "It's not squishy enough," Al complained.

                "Squishy," Ivan repeated. He frowned. "Well, if you insulate the bottom with a couple of hides—" He grabbed one from the floor, but Al snatched it.

                "No, don't!" he yelled, panicking. He hugged the soft hide to his chest. "I just... I have to do it myself, okay?"

                "Okay." In appeasement, Ivan retreated to the opposite cave wall and settled down. From there he watched Al fuss, giving a craftsman's advice in disguise. "Did you know that aquatic mammals have double-coated pelts? It's to protect them from the wet and cold, it's waterproof. It's thicker," he said conversationally. "In the East, we use furs to line our winter coats and then cover it with a waterproof layer, usually a seal-skin. It's soft and supple. It's flexible," he hinted. "But sometimes it's not enough, so Omegas wrap their pups with blankets—usually wool. With all those layers on, it's very _squishy_."

                Al followed Ivan's indirect instructions and completed the nest, and he felt much better for it. He sighed and sat down on the bouncy, squishy bedding, finally satisfied. When he looked at Ivan, he saw that the Alpha was staring at him and smiling.

                "You think it's silly, don't you?" he said, feeling embarrassed. "But it's not, not to me. It's important. I'm not usually this weird about it, but this time is different, because this time I'm sharing it with you, so it has to be perfect. I _want_ it to be perfect for you," he added softly. "It's all I can do, really. I'm not a very good Omega otherwise. I'm not soft, or gentle, or nurturing. I'm not quiet and submissive, I'm too loud. That's what Dad tells me. He wants me to be more like Matt. But I'm not like Matt." He shook his head. He didn't know why he was suddenly telling Ivan all of this, but he couldn't seem to stop. He blamed it on Heat hormones, which tended to toy with his emotions. And Ivan was a good audience for his monologue of self-pity. He was quiet and he didn't interrupt as Al named all of his faults, as if confessing the truth to Ivan before the Alpha mated him; before it was too late to change his mind. Secretly, Al feared that if Ivan knew the real Alfred Kirkland he wouldn't like him at all. But he loved Ivan more than he feared rejection.

                _He's asked me to be his Omega-mate_ , _he deserves to know what he's getting_.

                "I can't sew. I don't cater. I'm not a good nurse. I hate cleaning things. I'm not patient. I'm not quiet. I don't like being cooped inside. And I can't read very well," he said periodically. "I can cook, I guess. But I'm really lazy about it. I know that without Dad nagging me. And I... I've honestly never given much thought to having pups." He shrugged sheepishly. "I'm not very domestic. I'm not even attractive. I'm just not a good Omega," he repeated in conclusion.

                Al was feeling badly about himself, when Ivan suddenly said:

                "And what _is_ a good Omega, little one? Is it Matt?"

                Sadly, Al recalled his biggest fear: that Ivan would choose Matt if Matt were there. "Yes, Mattie's perfect."

                "Perfect," said Ivan. He crossed the cave and sat down next to Al in the bouncy, squishy nest. "Then perfect must mean something very different in your world, because you, little one, are _my_ perfect." Gently, he lifted Al's chin and kissed him chastely. Al melted in Ivan's embrace. His heart pounded, pumping hormone-infused blood through his veins, urging him to take more. But when he tried to deepen the kiss, Ivan pulled back. "And I was staring at you, not because I think you're silly," he said seriously, "but because you're beautiful."

                Al was speechless. He wanted to argue, but the truth in Ivan's violet gaze forbid it. It made him so happy he was afraid he would cry. " _Ivan_ ," he said huskily. He pressed his lips to the Alpha's and sucked. He touched Ivan's face, running his fingers over his cheekbones, his jaw, his neck, pawing at him insistently. His body reacted favourably to the intimate contact. The sultry taste of Ivan's lips, the feel of his strong, hot-blooded body, the musky scent mingled faintly with peppermint; it was making Al desperate. He shivered, tingling in all the right places.

                "No one's ever told me I'm beautiful," he admitted quietly.

                Ivan's lips brushed Al's. "Get used to it."

                "I love you," said Al, nose-to-nose with the Alpha.

                "I love you, too."

                "I want you."

                "Yes, I want you—" Ivan's deep voice rumbled in his throat, his eyes dilated, "—my beautiful little Omega."

                "Mm, there it is," Al smiled seductively. He placed both of his hands on Ivan's face and stared directly at him, unabashed. "There's the look I've been waiting for."

                "And—?" Ivan's roaming hands slipped beneath Al's thighs and lifted him onto his lap. Al emitted a sudden, soft gasp in reply. Then he sunk into Ivan's touch, straddling him. His thighs squeezed the Alpha's legs on either side with erotic intent. Ivan kissed his neck, licking and nipping with the largest canines Al had ever seen. He felt a smile curl the Alpha's lips as he nosed under Al's chin, teasing Al's jugular with his teeth. "Are you afraid?" said the Alpha with a deep-throated growl. It sent a shiver of pleasure down Al's spine; he felt it in his belly.

                "No."

                "Are you sure this is what you really want, Al?" Ivan kissed Al's jugular, feather-soft. "Me?"

                "Yes," Al replied without hesitance. "Yes, Ivan. I want you, sweetheart." He drew Ivan's head up. "I want you with me _forever_."

                Then he covered Ivan's mouth with his, silencing all doubt.

* * *

I'm going to go to the river to bathe," Ivan said, untangling Al. The Omega was hot and flushed, ready to be mated, but Ivan wanted to do it right, too. He didn't want to sully Al's painstakingly neat nest, and, truthfully, he needed a private minute to compose himself. He didn't want to lose control of his faculties and take Al like a rooting beast. He didn't want to hurt him, or scare him. And Al, too, looked as though he needed some time to nest properly, to make a space for himself. To prepare himself mentally. He was nearly there, Ivan could see it; he could smell it. _Oh_ , _gods_! _He smells so good_ , _so deliciously sweet_! _I want to taste him. I want to bite him and make him mine_ , _mine_. _Only mine._

                The Alpha wanted the Omega like he had never wanted anything in his entire life.

                _I won't last much longer_ , he knew.

                "Don't be long," Al pleaded, squeezing Ivan's hand. He sounded a little scared. His Heat was oncoming fast. By the time Ivan returned from the river, he would be ready. To hide his feelings, Al added: "Or I'll start without you."

                "Don't you dare," Ivan warned, kissing Al's hand. "I'll be right back."

* * *

Al waited. He felt a Heat-wave crash over him and bit his lip, swallowing a cry. He shifted from left-to-right, trying to find a comfortable position, but his skin was so sensitive, everything felt like a stroke; a caress. His body tingled where Ivan had pet him, remembering the Alpha's touch; craving it. Al was red-faced, hot, and panting, but he tried hard to regain some semblance of composure. He didn't want Ivan to return to find him writhing, covered in sweat and Heat-slick. It would be so embarrassing. But the longer the Alpha took, the more likely that picture became. Al waited, but eventually the tension was too much to bear and he took his cock in his hand, needing release. _I'll start without you_. It had been a joke then, but now it was true. Al thought of Ivan as he intimately touched himself, panting and whining and moaning. _Where are you_? _Why aren't you here yet_? Time was an abstract thing for an Omega in the throes of a Heat-wave. Al often forgot the time. But he was sure it had been more than the few minutes that Ivan had promised.

                "I'll be right back," he had said. But how long ago was that?

                Al waited, but he started to worry. As he tossed from side-to-side, consumed by desire, the conscious part of his brain began to doubt. _Where is he_? he thought, eyeing the cave's entrance. It was dark. It looked so far away. _Why hasn't he come back_?

                Al's brain fought an internal battle, like a tug-o-war rope being pulled back-and-forth between debilitating lust and mind-numbing fear.

                He shivered. He cried. He made himself climax.

                _Did something bad happen to him_? he panicked. He threw his head back and moaned, loud and long. He called Ivan's name, absent of the fact.

                _Did he get hurt_ , _or lost_?

                _Did he change his mind_?

                Al's heart clenched and he cried. He sobbed. He hurt.

                _Ivan_ , _I love you. Ivan_ , _please come back to me. Please_ , _don't leave me here alone. I need you. I love you_.

                Al waited and worried. Days passed—one, two, three—and finally the worst Heat of Al's life abated.

                But Ivan never returned.


	17. Lost Boys – Chapter Eight

**WESTERN EMPIRE**

**BLACK FOREST FORT**

Matt was asleep when he heard the sound of distant footsteps, the beating tap, tap, tap of soft leather on stone, which forced entry into his dreams. His eyelids fluttered open, but his sight was obstructed. The bedchamber was dark and quiet, and Matt's body was lying pressed against Gil's back, drawn to his body-heat. It was Gil's naked skin that pillowed Matt's cheek, and his tapered waist that the Omega absently hugged. It was the Alpha's bulk that blocked his view of the doorway. As he slowly regained awareness of his surroundings, Matt realized that he had migrated to Gil's side of the bed sometime in the night. But he could be embarrassed about that later. Just then, the footsteps were getting closer.

                "Gil," he said, shaking the Alpha's shoulder. "Gil, wake up."

                Gil produced a sleepy grunt and forced his eyes open. "What?" he asked, turning. Matt's proximity seemed to revive him. His red gaze focused and suddenly he was awake and on-guard. " _Schatz_ , what's wrong?"

                "Someone's there," Matt reported, just as the footsteps reached the bedchamber's door. Then it opened.

                Gil bolted upright, drawing a dagger from under his pillow. It was the one he had once lent to Matt, engraved with his family's crest. Matt instinctively shrank back, staying close to Gil's side. The Alpha's left arm was outstretched in an attempt to shield his Omega-mate. It was instinctive, a soldier's reflexes. An Alpha-mate's reflexes.

                " _Captain_ ," said the intruder in German. He sounded surprised. " _I expected to find you sleeping_ , _sir._ "

                " _Then you should have knocked_ , _Second-Lieutenant_." Gil lowered the dagger, but he didn't relax. " _What do you want_ , _Wolfe_?"

                Second-Lieutenant Wolfe stepped inside, a big, imposing silhouette in the corridor's meek light. He was not an Alpha with whom Matt was well-acquainted. All he knew was what Gil's Squire had told him: that Wolfe had been a hunter before joining the army, and because of his skills he had climbed the ranks fast. He was twenty-nine, one of the oldest Alphas at the fort, and the only one Gil hadn't trained himself. Wolfe was not a stray, like so many others, but an officer who had been transferred from the West's capital by recommendation.

                "The Kaiser thought it unwise to let one family rule the fort," said the Squire, implying the two Beilschmidt brothers, "so he sent Second-Lieutenant Wolfe to act as a counterbalance. But between you and I, I really don't think the Second-Lieutenant wanted to be posted out here so far from the Great House. He's here because his orders are direct from the Kaiser, but I don't think he likes it."

                _No_ , Matt agreed. _I don't think he likes it at all_.

                Wolfe was a scout. His job was to take large parties of Alphas into the wilderness to secure the south-western border, and because of that he was often gone for weeks at a time. As such, he had only recently returned to the fort, and had been shocked by Matt's presence. Despite his reticent face, Matt didn't think Wolfe approved of Gil's decision to mate him, and he resented the Omega because of it.

                _He blames me_ , Matt knew, trying to avoid Wolfe's gaze. It was cold. When it pierced him, Matt felt a shiver of unease.

                " _Wolfe_ —?" Gil prompted. He shifted, wrapping an arm around Matt and drawing the Omega against his side. " _It's late. Say what you need to and go_."

                " _It's just a report_ , _Captain. It's not urgent. I only meant to deliver it_." Slowly, Wolfe walked to the table and set down a rolled piece of long parchment. It was meticulous; his cold eyes didn't stray from Matt, as if keeping sight of a threat. When he turned, they reflected the corridor's light, flashing like a predator's.

                " _Next time_ , _if it's not urgent_ ," Gil said, annoyed, " _I'd rather not be disturbed so late_ , _Second-Lieutenant._ "

                Wolfe's eyes narrowed at Matt. He said: " _No doubt_." Pause. " _Sir._ "

                Then he left.

                "He doesn't like me," Matt said.

                "No," Gil agreed. "But," he looked down at the Omega nestled beneath his arm and grinned, "he doesn't like me either. Wolfe is a lawful Alpha, but he doesn't like taking orders from someone younger than himself. He's reliable and he's strong, but he sees in black-and-white. Maybe it makes him a good soldier, maybe it doesn't. It makes him stubborn, though. It's not that he dislikes you, _schatz_ , it's just that you're not supposed to be here. It's against the law. He's not a violent Alpha, but try to stay away from him, okay?"

                "Out-of-sight, out-of-mind?" Matt joked.

                Gil gave Matt an affectionate squeeze. "That's the spirit. By the way," he shifted and faced Matt. His tone was curious with a pinch of concern. "I thought you were sleeping."

                "I was."

                "But you heard Wolfe in the corridor—?"

                "Yes."

                "While asleep—?"

                "Yes."

                Gil frowned, waiting for Matt to elaborate. "Just how good is your hearing?"

                Matt paused, thinking on how best to answer the Alpha. "My ears can see things that my eyes can't," he said. Gil cocked his pale head and blinked in interest, like a snowy owl. It was cute. Matt bit back a charmed smile. "It's an evolutionary adaptation, like an Alpha's sense of smell. I read all about it. Omegas have heightened hearing so that we can care for and protect our pups. My hearing is more acute than most, I think. You see, everything in the world has a sound; everything vibrates when struck. Raindrops hitting leaves," he said in example. "Or paws on the forest floor, wings in the sky. The flow of water. A stitch being threaded. It all produces a sound, however faint."

                "And you can hear it?" Gil asked in disbelief.

                "If I concentrate, yes," Matt confirmed. "I can hear better with my eyes closed, with less distractions. But it's really no different than how you can know things based on a scent. You can read scents, can't you, because they're so distinct? My hearing is the same. For example, what's your range?"

                Gil shrugged. "A couple of miles, give or take. It depends on the wind, the weather, and how strong the scent is. Blood-scents are tricky to distinguish, but pungent scents like fire-smoke are easy. I can smell fire for miles."

                "The distance of my hearing is the same, give or take," Matt said.

                "That's amazing, _schatz_ ," Gil complimented. It felt good. Matt blushed. "So, if you close your eyes right now," said the Alpha playfully, "what can you hear?"

                Matt closed his eyes. He felt self-conscious knowing that Gil was watching him, but he tried to concentrate. He found it difficult to focus on anything besides Gil's breaths and his voice when the Alpha started asking rapid-fire questions and making suggestions. Finally, he pressed a finger to Gil's lips to silence him. "I can hear sentries on the walls, pacing back-and-forth; the sound of leather and metal on stone. I can hear the flags flapping in the breeze. I can hear the Alphas sleeping in the barracks; some sleep-talk, some snore, and some have nightmares. I can hear the wind whistling in the rafters; I can hear it echoing back from inside the well, and from in the bell-tower. I can hear wings in the tower; large wings. Owls, I think. I can hear embers crackling in a brazier somewhere... in the kitchen. I can hear thunder rumbling in the distance."

                Slowly, Matt opened his eyes, awaiting Gil's verdict.

                The Alpha's face was awestruck. "Amazing," he repeated. "That's a gift, Matt."

                "Maybe," Matt said, burying his face in embarrassment.

                "No!" Gil smiled in encouragement. He bounced as he moved, looking down at Matt. "Just think of how great it would be if we had a pup who inherited both of our gifts!"

                Matt's eyes widened, taken aback by Gil's enthusiastic mention of offspring. "Oh, I-I—"

                "Oh, no! I didn't mean that I—I was just, uh..." Gil blushed scarlet. "Uh, never-mind."

                Matt snuggled back down beneath the covers, but he didn't retreat. He stayed close to Gil's body, thinking on what the Alpha had unwittingly proposed. _Pups_ , he thought, feeling the heavy weight of duty. He had always imagined himself as an Omega-father with pups, of course, but he had never considered the Alpha-father before. Silly, really, since he couldn't conceive pups on his own. It's just that when he had imagined his pups before, he could never see the face of their Alpha-father. But now... _My pups will be Gil's pups_. Coyly, Matt looked up at the handsome, blushing Alpha beside him. _My pups will inherit his genes_ , _his strength_. Matt was surprised by how receptive he was to the idea, and of how willingly the family portrait appeared in his mind. He waited and waited for the familiar bite of fear or trepidation, but was disappointed by its absence. He felt defenceless, but—strangely—not afraid.

                "Gil," he asked softly, "do you _want_ pups?"

                "Oh, uh, I..." The Alpha blushed redder and scratched his head in embarrassment. Matt waited. "I've never really thought about it," he answered, chuckling nervously. He looked over at Matt, intending a smile, but the moment their eyes met he sobered. His face relaxed and his red eyes became thoughtful. "No," he corrected, "that's not true. The truth is, I've never _let_ myself think about it. I pledged myself to the military when I was thirteen-years-old. There was never any point in wishing for something I couldn't have. Like an Omega-mate." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. His eyes were somewhere else.

                "But now—?" Matt prompted gently.

                "Yes," he said honestly, "I want pups. I think I always have. But we don't always get what we want, do we?"

                "No," Matt agreed, lowering his gaze, "we don't.

                "What was it like?" he asked after a minute. He adopted a lighthearted tone. "The army, I mean. Will you tell me about it?"

                Gil sunk down beside Matt. He shoved an arm under his pillow to prop it up and leant intimately forward so they were only inches apart. It reminded Matt of the way he and Al used to lie in bed, giggling and storytelling late into the night. The Alpha's lips curled teasingly, a little devil-may-care; Matt liked it. When he spoke, his voice was relatively soft. "What do you want to know, _schatz_?"

                "I want to know about you," Matt replied shyly, "and your family. Tell me about your childhood."

                "Well," Gil began (he loved storytelling), "my Alpha-father was a General, but he never took the vows I did. It was after his time that the Empire introduced vows of celibacy into the commander's oath. They thought it would be better if military leaders weren't distracted by mates and families. I was born in a fort at the far-eastern border, which my Vater commanded. It wasn't like it is here in the forest. The fort I was born into was a community with a village and farmland, but it was still an army life for my family. Ludwig and I have been bred to it, I think."

                "And your Omega-parent?"

                "My Omega-father died shortly after Ludwig was born."

                "I'm sorry."

                "Don't be, it was a long time ago. I was five. I guess, looking back, I was five when I joined the army. Maybe I wouldn't have been so keen if my Omega-father had been there to stop me. At first, I just liked to play in the barracks with the soldiers, you know? But soon I was getting underfoot and volunteering to run errands and begging my Vater for combat lessons. I tried to imitate the soldiers whenever I could. I thought it would make my Vater proud of me if I became the perfect soldier."

                "Did it work?"

                "I don't know. I think Vater _was_ proud of us, but not because we were perfect. The gods know I sure wasn't perfect. But despite what you might be thinking, it was a happy childhood. I'd drag Ludwig along with me—Gods! He was such a little cry-baby back then! But don't tell him I told you that," he added, grinning wickedly. "I pledged myself to the Western Army officially on my thirteenth birthday. I was finally issued a uniform and a proper job as a lookout. A bell-ringer, actually, which comes with more responsibility than a simple lookout. I was really proud of myself for it. The others teased me, but I took it very seriously. I think that's what I remember the most, the community of the fort. Growing up there, it was like having a hundred brothers and sisters."

                "And I thought having one brother was a handful," Matt joked.

                Gil laughed. Then he asked: "What about you, Matt?"

                Matt tensed. "What about me?"

                "Tell me something about yourself."

                "There's really not much to know. I'm not very interesting."

                "I doubt that." Gil waited. When Matt failed to speak, he gently nudged the Omega's shoulder. "Come on, tell me something. Anything. Tell me something about yourself that nobody else knows," he challenged.

                Matt glanced helplessly at Gil, who smiled.

                "Come on, _schatz_. I'm an awesome secret-keeper," he promised.

                "Okay..." Matt hesitated. He averted his eyes and spoke to the pillow between them. "Ever since I was eleven-years-old, on the night of the first frost, I wait until everyone else in the house is asleep and then I sneak outside. I go down to the river near our house, and I strip off all my clothes, and I jump into the water. It's freezing, but I love it. I float there on my back and watch the moon and the stars. It's so peaceful. I stay there until I'm completely numb, then I get out, get dressed, and go back to bed. And nobody knows," he laughed slyly, emboldened by the confession. "It's the only time I'm ever really alone," he admitted. "No family guarding me, or worrying about me, because they don't even know about it. It's my secret. I've never told anyone that before."

                Finally, Matt lifted his eyes and met Gil's. He didn't look scandalized, just pleased.

                "Do you like being alone?" he asked.

                Matt thought for a minute, then said: "Yes, but it's got nothing to do with me."

                Gil cocked his head.

                Matt said: "Have you ever been in a crowd of people who are all staring at you, and yet somehow you feel completely ignored? Because that's basically my life. People look at me, but nobody actually sees _me._ Nobody talks to me, not really. They pay me compliments, but they don't really care what I have to say as long as I'm flattering them in return. I mean, do you know often I get cut-off mid-sentence?" he asked, letting a note of irritation flavour his voice. "My own family does it _all the time_. But it doesn't matter as long as I play my part and make them all look good. Al, he's the one people talk to; he's the one they want around. I'm the one they forget. Out-of-sight, out-of-mind," he said bitterly. "They stare at me like I'm a luxury on someone else's arm, unobtainable, just an accessory; just there to make that person look good. And as long as I stay there, quiet and smiling, they overlook me as if I'm not even there. So yes, I like to be alone.

                "I'm sorry," he added, glancing sheepishly at Gil.

                "For what, telling the truth?" Gil asked. His raspy voice was gentle, but reprimanding. "Matt, I'm your Alpha-mate now. I don't ever want you to think that you can't tell me things. Don't just be whatever you think I want you to be. I don't like pretenders. Just be yourself, okay?"

                Matt smiled in reply, but it was sad. "I honestly don't even know who that is anymore.

                "But that's enough about me," he said, forcing a change of topic. "I told you, I'm not very interesting. But I'm a good listener. It's your turn again, Gil. Tell me more about you."

* * *

Gil was roused early the next morning. Groggily he crawled out of bed, groaning. Gil was a light-sleeper and an early-riser; he could usually operate on very little rest. He didn't usually need someone—Ludwig—to shake him back into consciousness. But he also didn't usually stay up until dawn, talking, laughing, and sharing secrets with his Omega-mate. " _Captain_ ," said Ludwig in German. Briefly, Matt awoke, but when he recognized the Lieutenant he abandoned all propriety and burrowed back beneath the blankets. " _Captain. Captain. Gilbert_!" Ludwig biffed Gil over the head. The red-eyed Alpha growled unhappily. " _Yeah_ , _yeah_ ," he yawned. Half-asleep, he patted Matt's head before he left.

                The next time Matt awoke, it was midday.

                "Matthew—? Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you!" said the Squire.

                "No, it's okay," Matt said, waving in dismissal. Yawning, he sat up, dragging the blanket with him. He wore it over his head, preserving the warmth.

                "Guess what?" said the Squire, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He was smiling a big, excited smile.

                Matt leant closer in confidence. "What?"

                "My leave was approved. I'm going home next week, and—" He blushed happily, and his smile grew as big as his whole face, "—Finn," he named his intended Omega-mate, "is going to be in Heat then, so... we're finally going to be pair-bonded!"

                "Oh, that's wonderful!" Matt smiled.

                "Do you want to see a picture of him? I mean, it's just a sketch I did, but still... Look, see? That's my Finn."

                Matt took the sketch. "He's really beautiful," he complimented. The young Alpha glowed with pride. "You're a very talented artist."

                "Oh, thank-you. You can't really see it because it's just a charcoal sketch," he pointed, "but my Finn has the most amazing blue eyes you've ever seen."

                "I believe it," Matt said, returning the sketch. "He's a very lucky Omega."

                The Squire left soon afterward, sighing in mock-exhaustion. He had been chosen to accompany the Second-Lieutenant as part of an armed scouting mission. A sighting of Southerners had disturbed the fort's higher command (i.e. Gil had thrown a—private—fit in anger: "Le Roux, that fucking liar!" he snarled). Gil had ordered his scouts out to investigate, with orders to kill on-sight. Matt had tried to placate the captain's anger, but Gil was furious that Le Roux had broken their agreement so soon.

                "He never intended to keep his word. He's after the fort. And you," he said to Matt.

                "Me? But I thought we were done with me! I thought that's why you and I..." Matt quieted fast when he saw an indignant look on the Alpha's face.

                "Never-mind." Gil shook his head and heaved a deep sigh. "I've got my rounds to do. I'll see you later."

                He was halfway out the door when he stopped. "Hey, Matt?" he said, cocking his head. "Do you, maybe, want to come with me?"

                "Really?" Matt asked eagerly. He set aside Gil's black tunic, half-mended.

                "Sure," Gil shrugged nonchalantly. "Let's put your German to the test," he joked.

                Matt leapt up and took Gil's arm in escort. It was a bright, sunny day. The Alphas were surprised to see Matt accompanying the captain, but rather than frown in disapproval, their dreary, tired faces cheered. They saluted as Gil passed, then, when the captain issued an "at-ease" order, they inclined their heads to Matt, respecting his position as the captain's Omega-mate. Some of them even smiled. After a month, they had all gotten used to Matt being there and they trusted Gil, besides. "Know what's funny?" Gil whispered to Matt as they strolled. "Technically, _you_ outrank most of them now." Matt _did_ find that funny—and ironic. He stifled a laugh. Gil took him on a leisurely tour all around the fort, introduced him to the soldiers, and let them explain the logistics and operation of their various duties. A few of them hesitated at first, thinking military equipment an unsuitable topic for an Omega, but a pressing look from Gil encouraged them to obey, and soon they were talking animatedly, encouraged by the Omega's interest. Matt smiled as they shared. He asked a lot of questions, paid a lot of compliments, and—once—even asked if he could be the one to pull the catapult's lever in practice. And they let him.

                "That was fun," he said to Gil afterward.

                "Matt," he said, lowering his voice for privacy. He cocked his head at his Alphas. "They _love_ you. Seriously," he added, ignoring Matt's snort of dismissal, "you just made their day."

                "I didn't do anything. I just talked to them."

                "Which is more attention than any of them has got in months," Gil admitted. "You talked to them. You asked them questions. You took an interest in them and their work. You remembered all of their names. Matt, you have no idea what a smile from a pretty Omega does for morale."

                "Oh, I see," Matt teased. He poked Gil's chest in accusation. "So, you had ulterior motives when you asked if I wanted a tour of the fort, is that it?"

                "No!" Gil laughed. "It was a happy side-effect." Playfully, he ruffled the Omega's curls. Matt tried to escape, but Gil pulled him back, holding him around the middle, and grabbed at his ribs. An embarrassingly high-pitched yelp left Matt before he dissolved into a fit of laughter. "Ticklish, _schatz_?" Gil grinned wickedly.

                "No, don't! Gil, stop it!" Matt shrieked in laughter.

                "Uh, Captain?" Ludwig interrupted.

                Gil—bent precariously over Matt, whom he was holding in his arms, supporting the Omega as he play-fought for freedom, flushed and laughing—looked guiltily up at Ludwig, as if he had been caught doing something naughty.

                "Yes, Luddy?"

                Ludwig switched to German, unaware of Matt's private lessons. " _Maybe don't flirt with your Omega-mate in the middle of the courtyard where everyone can see you_ —? _It's not very professional_ , _Gil. Just a suggestion_."

                " _Flirting_ , _no. I wasn't flirting. I was just playing_."

                " _Gil_ , _we played a lot as pups_ ," Ludwig reminded him, " _and the last time you tickled me_ , _I was six._ "

                " _Uh_ , _yes_ , _but_ —"

                " _Take it inside_ , _Gil_." Finally, Ludwig broke into a teasing half-grin. " _Your Alphas are all laughing at you._ "

                Gil relaxed. " _Oh_ , _yeah_? _Well good_ ," he nodded, drawing Matt close to his side. " _They should laugh whenever they can._ "

                Pleased, he smiled down at his Omega-mate. Matt smiled back, feeling safe and relaxed. He fit comfortably beneath Gil's arm, just tall enough to rest his head against the Alpha's shoulder. He did so, looking playfully up at Gil. Gil, who's vibrant red gaze landed on Matt's lips. Before the Omega could interrupt or break eye-contact, Gil swooped down. Matt panicked and turned his head and Gil kissed his cheek. Like Lars, Gil straightened and stared at Matt in surprise. He opened his mouth to speak, but Matt blurted:

                "I'm sorry!" Hastily, he ducked beneath Gil's arm in escape.

                Gil glanced at Ludwig, who politely pretended not to notice. "Matt," said the red-eyed Alpha, nodding toward the keep.

                Matt followed him, feeling nervous. _Oh_ , _fuck_. _And today was going so well. Why did I just do that_?

                Gil stopped in the corridor, just out-of-sight. He said: "Why won't you let me kiss you?"

                Habitually Matt bowed his head in shame. Gil didn't sound upset, just curious. But the Alpha was quite good at masking his feelings, and Matt had just embarrassed him in front of the entire fort, shattering the illusion of them as a happily-mated couple. Guilt churned in his stomach. "I'm sorry," he repeated. _I shouldn't have flinched. Now Gil looks like an Alpha who can't control his own Omega-mate. It's a poor reputation for a Fort Commander._ "I-I—I didn't mean to—"

                "Matt?" Gil leant forward, peering into the Omega's downcast face. "Are you okay? Is something wrong?"

                Bravely and quickly, Matt said: "I'm sorry, Gil. I'm sorry that I embarrassed you, but I don't want you to kiss me. It's unfair, I know. You're my Alpha-mate and my body belongs to you, but I... I don't want to kiss someone who I'm not in love with."

                An awkward silence stretched for a minute too long, then the Alpha shrugged.

                "Oh, is that all?" he asked, tipping his head to look at Matt. He hooked a finger around a pale curl and pulled it aside, revealing half of the Omega's blushing face.

                "Is that... okay?" Matt asked cautiously.

                Gil's smile was kind. "Yes, that's okay. Come here." He pulled Matt into a friendly hug. "I thought I had done something wrong, so I'm glad. I want you to tell me these things, remember? I won't get angry. Not if you tell me the truth. But," he said a minute later, "can I make a request, too?"

                "Of course," Matt replied in surprise.

                Gil pulled back, his hands resting lightly on Matt's back. "Please," he said earnestly, "don't ever be afraid of me. I know that I'm not a choice Alpha. I know this isn't exactly the mated-life you had planned, but I swear I'll never hurt you. I want you to trust me, okay? Hey, look at me, _schatz_." Tenderly he cupped Matt's face. "I promise I'll always take care of you, no matter what, okay?"

                Matt looked up into Gil's vibrant red eyes and was nodding even before he spoke. "Okay," he said honestly. It was a small thing, but he suddenly felt as if a weight had been lifted. He had never said the following words to anyone but his family: "I trust you."

                Gil leant down, and this time the Omega didn't flinch. He fought the flight instinct that had plagued him his whole life, and stayed put—

                —and Gil kissed his forehead.

* * *

**LATER**

Captain, sir," reported a sentry.

                Gil was browsing the armoury—sans Matt—and trying not to replay the Omega's confession over-and-over in his head: " _I don't want to kiss someone who I'm not in love with_." The fact that Matt had practically ran to escape the Alpha's kiss was proof enough that he was not in love with Gil. But that was fine. The circumstances of his and Matt's pair-bonding hadn't exactly been romantic. And it's not like Gil was in love with him, either. No. The hollow feeling in the Alpha's stomach was because he had skipped supper. It was hunger; maybe the beginnings of a stomach flu. It had nothing to do with his Omega-mate's rejection.

                Gil looked up at the Alpha's knock. "Yes?" He waved at him, permitting he enter the large, circular chamber.

                "The scouting party has returned, sir."

                Gil set down his ledger, mating problems temporarily forgotten. He didn't trust the sentry's tone. It sounded heavily burdened. "And—?"

                Regretfully, the sentry shook his head.

                Gil's stomach clenched. He hated losing his soldiers. Every death was a devastating blow.

                "Who?" he asked, steeling himself.

                The sentry hesitated. Then he said: "It's Grey, sir. Your squire."

* * *

Gil entered the sick-room with purpose and was led to the young Alpha's bedside. The surgeon had tried to save the Squire's life. His torso was cauterized and bandaged, but it was useless. Blood saturated the linen. So much blood. He had already lost too much blood. When Gil asked the surgeon for a diagnosis, the Alpha simply shook his head sadly in apology. There was nothing to be done except wait for Gil's young Squire, Grey, to die.

                The news had hit Gil hard. Shock and fear had twisted his insides, but now all he felt was grief. As he knelt at Grey's bedside, he felt an intense stab of guilt. The youth was weak and deathly-pale. Gil took his hand.

                "Captain—?" he croaked softly.

                "Yes, I'm here. You did well, Soldier." He squeezed the cold hand. "You served your country. You made the Empire proud."

                Slowly, Grey turned his head. Gil had never noticed before how blue his eyes were. "And you? Sir, are you..."

                "The proudest of all," Gil confirmed. He smiled. It hurt.

                "I-I—I'm scared."

                "Don't be. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

                "Captain..." In effort, the Squire pulled at something tucked into his breast-pocket. It was a piece of paper; a corner was wet with blood. Gil took the liberty of removing it for him. He tried to place it in the cold hand, but Grey refused it. "Take it back... to him," he said, choking. Only then did Gil realize that he was holding a sketch. "Tell him... Tell him I love..."

                "I will," Gil promised. He squeezed Grey's hand, but the young Alpha didn't flinch. He couldn't even feel it.

                "I-I—I can't see. I'm scared," he repeated, softer still.

                "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

                "But I-I—I am."

                Gil didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. He held the dying Alpha's hand tight against his chest.

                " _Captain_."

                "Yes? Yes—? I'm here," said Gil, but he received no reply. His Squire was dead.

                Gently, Gil reached down and closed the fifteen-year-old's blue eyes. He whispered a prayer, kissed the dead soldier's forehead, and then left.

* * *

The instant Gil closed the bedchamber door, Matt knew that something was wrong. The Alpha tugged off his coat, let it fall to the floor, and then kicked off his boots. He spotted Matt, but quickly looked away.

                "Oh, Matt," he said quietly, a catch in his voice. "I thought you'd be asleep."

                Matt didn't miss the insinuation: Gil had hoped Matt would be asleep.

                "Oh, I was," Matt said, watching Gil's lethargic movements. It was dark, but he didn't light a candle. "I heard the bell."

                "Oh." Gil walked to the window and looked out. He stood in only his loose shirtsleeves and trousers, without any armour—physical or emotional. His posture was tense. Matt could see his wiry shoulders arched, his head bowed low, as if gazing upon the courtyard bellow. Stoically, he said: "The scouting party returned. Grey is dead."

                Matt clapped a hand to his mouth to stifle a whine. His eyes flooded with tears, but he blinked. The Alpha's blunt words felt like a punch.

                It was silent for a long time. Gil didn't move an inch. He stayed at the window, hands laying flat against the stone. Matt sat on the bed and tried not to cry. _Grey is dead_? It was sad. The Alpha was only fifteen-years-old, just a squire. He had had such a lot of energy and so many future plans. He had been kind to Matt. And he adored Gil. The fact that he was dead—so fast, no warning—cut Matt deeply. Matt had only just been talking with him that morning! But Matt had only known the young Alpha for a month. Gil had known him for years. _Oh_ , _Gil_. He looked at the tense Alpha, standing alone at the window. It was dark, but starlight illuminated Gil's silvery figure. He reminded Matt of the forlorn heroes from Al's favourite stories. Quietly, he slipped out of bed and approached the Alpha. When Gil didn't move, Matt gently placed his hand on the Alpha's back. It was cold. For once, Matt was the warmer of the two, still bathed in conserved body-heat from the bed. He wrapped his arms around Gil from behind and hugged him, and Gil let him. Like stone, he didn't move an inch, but he let Matt hold him and rest his curly head on his back.

                "It's my fault," Gil said quietly.

                "No," Matt denied, but Gil ignored him.

                "He was only fifteen. I found him when he was twelve. Found him, like a stray. His family had been killed in a border-raid, so I took him. I made him my squire. I shouldn't have. I should've sent him to the Great House to work as a farmer or a craftsman. He should've been someone's apprentice, an artist maybe. He was a good artist. I shouldn't have let him come here. But he wanted to be a soldier, my squire; said he owed me. And I said yes." Gil's voice broke; his body shuddered. He took a deep breath. "He never had the heart of a soldier. I knew that, but I brought him here anyway. I trained him as a soldier, and I gave him a soldier's duties, and a soldier's pride. And now he's dead because of it," Gil whispered, "and it's all my fault. If I had been there today..."

                "Gil," Matt soothed softly, "you can't know what would have happened. If not Grey, it might have been you."

                "It should have been me."

                "No—"

                "He was going home next week," Gil interrupted. Matt saw the Alpha's fists clench. "He has— _had_ —an Omega waiting for him."

                "I know. He showed me a picture."

                In reply, Gil pulled the blood-stained sketch from his pocket. It was creased. Wordlessly, he gave it to Matt.

                "He was my responsibility," Gil said dejectedly, "and I failed him."

                Gil's unspoken question—his fear—hung between them: _What if I fail others_ , _too_?

                Matt rubbed Gil's back as he spoke. "I see it now," he said after a minute.

                "What?"

                "Something that Ludwig said," Matt repeated, " _Gil has a weakness for strays_."

                Gil snorted derisively. "Weakness is right. My whole company is made of strays and misfits, ordered out here to fight a losing battle. Half of them shouldn't even be here. Half of them are going to die."

                Matt shook his head. He looked up at Gil, but the Alpha's gaze was downcast. "Ludwig is wrong. And so are you, Gil. It's not a weakness. Compassion and kindness are not weaknesses. I'd be dead if it wasn't for you."

                "And Grey would be alive."

                "Gil." Brazenly, Matt reached up and cupped Gil's cheek, turning the Alpha's head so they faced each other. His red eyes shone with unshed tears. "You're only one Alpha, you can't save everyone."

                One tear fell; then another. Gil turned and hugged Matt, burying his face in the Omega's shoulder. Matt held him and rubbed his back and pet his hair, whispering soothing words that Gil didn't hear. He squeezed Matt tightly in his arms, bracing his weight against his Omega-mate. Gil was heavy, but Matt didn't mind. He was happy to be there to support him, even if his own heart ached. He tried to stay strong. He didn't buckle beneath the weight of his own emotions; he held back his tears, because for the first time _Gil_ needed _him_.

                " _Matt_."

                Gil's lips spoke against Matt's neck, wet and hot. He kissed Matt's neck, once, twice, nuzzling the Omega with his nose. Matt felt the Alpha's teeth graze his skin, but he didn't bite. He kissed Matt's throat and collarbone. At a loss, Matt stood there and let him. He could feel Gil's heart beating fast, and the wetness of tears on his skin. The Alpha felt weak; that was obvious. A comrade had died and he was feeling the sting of loss—a loss of control, which the Fort Commander hated.

                _He needs to feel strong_ _again_ , Matt knew, letting Gil paw absently at him. _He needs an outlet for his grief._

                Matt walked backwards, gently pulling Gil with him until he felt the wall at his back. Gil lifted his head, and when he did Matt looked at him very deliberately and dropped a hand to Gil's belt. The Alpha tensed. He didn't move as Matt unbuckled the belt and tossed it heedlessly to the floor, all the while staring up at the Alpha with carnal intent in his violet eyes. He cupped Gil's cock through his trousers and felt it twitch in response. Gil uttered a soft gasp. Only then did he lean in, pressing their bodies together. He placed a knee between Matt's splayed legs, snug up against the Omega's groin. Matt moved his hips slowly in reply, grinding against the Alpha. Gil made a growling noise deep in his throat. The tears were gone from his eyes now. He opened Matt's shirt, careless of the buttons, and bowed his head to the Omega's soft skin; kissing and licking and nipping; indulging in what had been off-limits to him before. The feel of Gil's tongue was foreign, but good. Matt honestly didn't know if it was something he would have wanted from anyone, or just from Gil, but just then he didn't care. He let the Alpha tug his trousers down until they hit the floor and then he gracelessly stepped out of them. He wrapped his arms around Gil's neck as the Alpha half-lifted him off the floor. A strong hand grasped Matt under the thigh; Matt wrapped his leg around Gil's hips, using the wall for support. It was a bit clumsy and a bit messy. The Alpha's slick cock lingered at the Omega's entrance. Both of them were breathing hard in anticipation now; a little excited, a little scared. Nose-to-nose, Gil looked directly into Matt's eyes, and said:

                "Are you sure?"

                Matt locked his arms around Gil, fingernails biting the Alpha's ghost-white skin. "Yes."

* * *

Hours later, Matt was lying on his back in the bed with Gil beside him, sleeping. The Alpha's head was pillowed on his chest, his arms wrapped around Matt's middle. Matt stroked the Alpha's hair and listened to his deep, quiet breaths; he felt his chest rise-and-fall rhythmically; his heart beating peacefully. Gil had fallen asleep fast, but Matt was wide awake. He had never been mated upright against a wall before. It was reckless. It was— _kind of exciting_ , he admitted in private. It had hurt, of course, but it felt much less intrusive than the first time they had mated. In fact, at times it had felt something akin to good. He had cried-out and clawed at Gil, like before—Gil's strong back was scored with scratches—but this time Matt hadn't been afraid of it. Maybe it was grief, maybe not. Maybe it was a sign of growing affection for his Alpha-mate. Whatever it was, one thing was certain. This time, Matt had _wanted_ Gil to mate him.

                A knock sounded at the door. Gil was dead-asleep. Matt called: "Yes—?"

                Ludwig entered, holding a lantern that illuminated the couple in bed. "I'm sorry to disturb you," he said by way of apology. "The Captain—Gil," he corrected, realizing that he was talking to his brother-in-law and not another soldier, "should inspect the troops before they leave the fort again."

                Matt bit his lip indecisively. "Could you do it instead?" he asked coyly, afraid of overstepping his position.

                Ludwig's blue eyes surveyed his brother's languid figure. In reflex, Matt hugged Gil protectively. "Yes," said the lieutenant after a short hesitance. He met Matt's eyes and a silent understanding passed between them. "I think that's a good idea."

                He bowed his head and retreated, but stopped at the door. Before leaving, he turned back to Matt, and said:

                "Matthew?"

                "Yes?"

                "Take care of my brother."

                Matt smiled. "Yes, sir."

* * *

**WESTERN EMPIRE**

**WILDERNESS**

Alfred tested his injured leg by squeezing it gently between his fingers, feeling the broken fibula bone as Ivan always did. It was tender, and his skin was pale and bruised an ugly yellow, but it hurt much less than it had. It was healing well. Al was lucky. Pups healed a lot faster than adults, according to Ivan, who ignored the Omega's indignant protest: "I'm fifteen, I'm not a pup!" Meticulously Al re-bandaged his shin, tying it tight, and then rewrapped it in heavy clean linen. He had seen Ivan do it countless times. Then, exhaling slowly in apprehension, he placed both feet on the floor and stood. His left leg throbbed in protest, but the bone held his lightweight. "Thank the gods," he said aloud. He took a few experimental steps back-and-forth, bearing the pain and testing his strength. After a month of nothing but bed-rest, his leg was weakened. It felt shaky, but no longer in danger of breaking. He grabbed the stout walking-stick that Ivan had procured for him and left the cave.

                " _I'm going to go to the river to bathe_." That's what Ivan had said before he left, so that's where Al began his search.

                He hobbled to the rocky shore, letting his keen eyes rake the long grass and lazily flowing water. It wasn't deep; Al could see the riverbed as clearly as he could the sky. He skulked along the edge for several yards, then stopped and retreated; back-and-forth. He tried to find Ivan's scent, but his nose wasn't sensitive enough and the river distorted all smells, washing them away. He listened intently to the forest, but all he heard was babbling water, birdsongs, and dry leaves rustling in the breeze. _If only I had Mattie's hearing_ , he thought, straining his ears. If Ivan was nearby, injured or trapped, Matt would have been able to hear him.

                _But what if he's not injured or trapped_? said Doubt in Al's head. _What if he changed his mind_ , _decided that he didn't want you after all_ , _and left_?

                Al's fists clenched. He felt angry and sad. Ivan's _I love you_ played over-and-over in his mind, taunting him. A cruel jest? _No_ , _Ivan wouldn't do that. He wouldn't have lied_ _to me._

                _But he might have changed his mind_ , said Doubt. _He wouldn't be the first to give you false hope._

                _No_ , _Ivan's not like that. He would have told me to my face. He's not a coward._

_He's a deserter. Maybe he deserted you_ , _too._

                Al shook his head.

                Resting his leg, he leant heavily on the walking-stick. To his left, the reeds tickled his skin; to his right, they were crushed, lying flat in the soil. Al frowned. The riverbank dipped subtly, but instead of sinking into the water, the earth was smooth, as if something had been dragged out. He followed the trail of flattened reeds with his eyes and saw a sinewy tree branch that was hanging limply. When he was close enough, he could see that it hadn't been cut down, but broken, as if a heavy weight had crashed into it. He followed the trail further, hunting for other signs of a struggle, and finally found a patch of grass covered in dry blood. Al didn't need an Alpha's sense of smell to know it was Ivan's. What he couldn't determine was what had attacked the unsuspecting Alpha. If, indeed, he had been attacked and had not simply ran off to escape his commitment to Al. Al tried to ignore the humiliating thought as he searched for signs of wildlife, but found none. If Ivan had been attacked by an animal, then the thing would have left evidence—a corpse, or bones, or shredded cloth, but there was nothing, which only left one option. If it wasn't some _thing_ that had found Ivan, then it had to be some _one_.

                "Oh, Ivan," Al whispered, scanning the dense woods in fear, "what happened to you?"

* * *

Al returned to the cave with a plan. He took Ivan's leather belt and secured it around his waist, then stuck the Alpha's hunting-knife into it. He packed an oil-skin with water, food, tinder, and medical supplies, and tied it to the belt. Then he took the Alpha's coat and boots, which were too big. And his sword. He dug in the box for the sword's belt and then secured the sheathed weapon over his shoulder, wearing it on his back. It wasn't as heavy like that. Finally, he fetched the dried bear-skin from outside and threw it over himself like a cloak. It was heavy and coarse, but its density cut the wind. It would keep the underweight Omega warm and hide his mild scent. The bear was the largest, most dangerous predator in the forest, after all; no beast would risk attacking it, no matter how hungry it was.

                _I'm glad there's no looking-glass_ , he thought briefly. _I must look like a barbarian_.

                But for the first time in a long time, Al didn't give a damn what he looked like. The only thing he cared about was finding Ivan.

                "Just hold on, Ivan," he said in determination. "I'm coming, I'll find you."

                Then he took his walking-stick and left the cave.

* * *

Ivan leant back against the tree he was tethered to, trying—and failing—to find a comfortable spot free of knots and rocks. His whole body was stiff; it ached. And the three-tined wounds on his chest throbbed, torn open in the struggle. It had been two days since he had stood and stretched; three days since he had consumed anything except water; and four days since he had seen Al.

                _Al_.

                He couldn't even think the name without feeling a stab of guilt and regret. _I hope you're alright_. Ivan didn't know the details of Omega Heats, but he knew that it was unpleasant if left unmated. (He had heard a rumour, once, that an Omega's Heats got worse every year he was left unmated. Al was only fifteen, but it didn't quiet Ivan's fears.) He hoped that Al had suffered through it alone. He hated to consider the alternative: that the Alphas, the Easterners, who had found and captured him for a deserter had also found Al. _Ivan's_ Al: alone, injured, helpless, and in Heat. The mental image of them touching Al, kissing him, violating his beautiful body, stealing his virginity; stealing him away from Ivan—! Ivan squeezed his eyes shut and growled, trying to rid himself of the thought. Every time he imagined it, he felt fury consume him. If not for the ropes restraining him, he would have lunged at the soldiers and ripped them apart. Even now, his hands shook as he tried to suppress his rage.

                _No_ , he told himself sternly. _If they had found Al_ , _they would've said something about it by now. They would want me to know about it_ , _to taunt me. My Al is safe._ He had to believe that, or go mad worrying.

                The rage abated and slowly he opened his eyes. He glared maliciously at the other Eastern Alphas, who were sitting around a merrily crackling fire. Ivan was too far to benefit from the fire's heat, but close enough for his captors to guard him. There were five of them, a small scouting-party. For one blissful moment Ivan imagined choking the life out of the lot of them with his bare hands, but he knew he was too weak to fight all of them. A couple, yes; but five—? He would be dead before he could squeeze the life from even one. He hated it. He hated feeling weak and helpless, at the mercy of others. He was a capable, independent Alpha. He had been taking care of himself for a long time. He had been free for a long time. He hated feeling trapped.

                Absently, he let his eyes scan the forest. It was dark now, another day fading into night. The foliage around the campsite was dense. He stared at a bramble bush a few feet away—and realized with a sudden start that the bush was staring back.

                Al's big blue eyes stared deliberately at Ivan. Ivan would know those spirited eyes anywhere.

                Ivan's eyes bulged in reply, in disbelief, in fear. Fervently, he nodded in a directionless way, trying to tell Al to leave.

                _What the fuck are you doing_? _Get away from here_! _Leave me be_ , _it's too dangerous_!

                He would never forgive himself if Al got captured. Angrily, he glared at the stubborn Omega, heart beating in panic. _Alfred_ , _please—for once—obey me and run_!

                But he didn't. Rather, the ballsy Omega looked right at Ivan, lifted a finger to his lips to indicate silence, and then winked. Ivan could have strangled him. Al's crafty smile did not fill Ivan with confidence. Instead, he worried for the Omega's safety—and sanity. _Are you fucking insane_ , _Alfred_? Before he could give a wordless reply, however, Al's pretty face disappeared into the bushes, leaving Ivan to wonder where he had gone. He tried to follow Al's trek, but it was too dark. He couldn't see or hear the Omega; Al moved as silent as a specter. Ivan waited—and waited, and waited for any sign.

                Finally, one of the soldier's lifted his head and sniffed curiously at the air, his nose twitching. Befuddled, he turned to his comrades, and said: "Do you smell that?" He glanced nervously from face-to-face. "It's smells like—"

                "Bear," said another, catching his comrade's fear.

                Together, four of the five soldiers collected their swords and jogged off into the forest toward the scent, ready for a fight. One stayed behind to guard Ivan, the prisoner. He paced anxiously around the fire, his hand hovering over the pommel of his sword. He glanced back at Ivan, who cocked an eyebrow, pretending to be bored, before turning in the direction of the apparent threat. That's when it happened. As soon as his back was unguarded, Al pounced out of the bushes like a wildcat, grabbed the Alpha, and pressed Ivan's hunting-knife to his jugular.

                "Don't move," he warned, drawing the soldier's sword from the scabbard. He tossed it aside, where it landed uselessly in a pile of dry leaves. "Don't speak. If you make a single sound, I'll cut your fucking throat," said the Omega mercilessly.

                The Alpha snarled, but stopped when Ivan translated Al's threat into Russian.

                "Walk slowly, hands up," Al said, letting Ivan translate. He held the knife at the Alpha's throat as he led him backwards to Ivan's tree. "Sit," he ordered, then took a rope from his belt—Ivan's belt—and bound the Alpha's hands and feet. As a precaution, he took a strip of linen bandages and used it to gag the irate Alpha. Then the cheeky Omega patted his head. "Cozy?" he grinned. The Alpha glared at him and grunted.

                "Al," said Ivan in disbelief. As soon as Al knelt in front of him, Ivan leant forward and seized the Omega's soft lips. He kissed him roughly. He couldn't hold back. It was fast and hard and inconsiderate—and felt so good. It was everything that he had been craving ever since he had first smelled Al's delicious Heat. Then abruptly  he pulled back, his temper flaring. " _What the fuck are you doing here_?" he snapped.

                Al rolled his eyes. "Rescuing you, of course."

                Quickly, Al cut the ropes imprisoning Ivan.

                Ivan pulled Al against his beaten body. "You fool!" he said, squeezing Al; kissing him. "You stupid, stubborn, reckless Omega! You shouldn't have come here, it's too dangerous!"

                " _Dangerous_?" Al pulled back, gaping at him. "Do you have any idea how worried I've been? You left and then didn't come back, Ivan! I waited for three fucking days, but you never came back! I thought you decided to... I thought something horrible had happened to you, and I was right!"

                "You knew, and yet you placed yourself in deliberate danger?" Ivan challenged. "You shouldn't have come!"

                "Stop!" Al snapped, fisting handfuls of Ivan's soiled shirt. He held tightly, hands shaking. "Don't tell me what I should or shouldn't do! I love you, you stupid Alpha! I wasn't about to just leave you! Would you—" his voice broke, betraying tears, "—have left me?"

                Ivan stared at the Omega, speechless. "No," he said finally, fervently—softly. "Of course not. I love you, Al."

                "I love you, too," Al said in relief. He stood and offered Ivan his hand. "Now, let's get the fuck out of here."

* * *

Can you stand?" Al asked, helping Ivan to his feet. The Alpha looked horrible, bruised and beaten. His pale skin was sallow; dark shadows of fatigue encircled his eyes; his lips were parched; and his breathing was uneven. The wounds on his chest had reopened and bloodied his shirt, sapping his strength. He was in a lot of pain, but he tried to hide it.

                "It's worse than it looks," he said shortly, dismissing Al's proffered hand.

                Al pouted. "Stop saying that," he replied unhappily. "It's entirely as bad as it looks. You're just a big, stupid, selfish Alpha, who—"

                "Alfred!" Ivan silenced him. "Can we please not do this now?"

                Al considered the situation. Fleetingly, he glanced at the Eastern soldier, who glared sullenly at the reunited couple. _Oh_ , _gods. I'm acting like a brat_ , he realized. _I've got to get Ivan out of here before_ —

                He stopped.

                "Ivan, wait. Be quiet," he ordered, holding up a hand to deny the Alpha's protest as he listened carefully. The forest was alive with subtle sounds, but it was the pace of footsteps that drew his attention. "They're coming back," he reported. His decoy—the bear skin—hadn't distracted the soldiers for as long as Al had wanted. "We've got to go _now_."

                But _now_ wasn't soon enough.

                Four large Eastern Alphas crashed into the campsite, angry at having been deceived. Al clutched the knife in his white-knuckled fist, even as Ivan drew his sword from the sheath on Al's back. He held it out one-handed, his body poised for attack. Where he found the strength, Al didn't know. The big, irate Alpha stepped protectively in front of Al, who shrank back in fear. He felt like a coward for doing so, but it was an instinctive reflex. Al might have been strong-willed, but he was physically weak compared to their enemies. A single blow from one of those fists could be deadly, never-mind the swords. He knew that he couldn't face a fully grown Alpha—a trained soldier—and win, so he hugged the tree-line in a defensive way. The Omega was all out of tricks. _Oh_ , _fuck_! _What do I do_? His eyes scanned the dense forest from left-to-right, searching for an escape. Too late—

                —the Alphas lunged.

                " _Run_!" Ivan snarled at Al, meeting the attack head-on.

                This time, Al obeyed. He dodged to the left, but one of the Alphas blocked his path. In fast retreat, he crashed into the tall tree Ivan had been tethered to. To the right, Ivan was engaged in a swordfight. To the left, the stray Alpha was charging at Al, intending to kill. Al looked to his only route and climbed. He pulled himself easily up into the tree branches like a squirrel, moving swiftly. The Alpha followed him, growling and spitting up insults, but Al's lightweight out-paced him. He had been climbing trees since he was a pup. Unafraid, he climbed higher-and-higher onto thinner boughs. Eventually, he had to discard the heavy belt and cloak, dropping them in an attempt to quicken his pace and lighten his weight. Naked except for the thin clothes on his back, Al felt the wind's bite as it blew through the topmost boughs, threatening to knock him off. Finally, he could go no further.

                _It's okay_ , he thought logically. _I'm much too high_. _He can't follow me here_ , _he's too heavy._

                The Eastern soldier was not a climber. His body was big and heavy; he was dressed in thick armour; and he refused to let go of his sword for better balance. He clenched it as he slipped, and cursed as he crashed up through the branches, slashing at leaves.

                _He'll stop soon_. _He'll have to_.

                But the Alpha was determined. Al could see the white's of his eyes; eyes that glared up stubbornly. His teeth were clenched, his canines bared as he pulled himself upward, heedless of the danger.

                "Stop!" Al yelled at him, hugging his perch. He could feel the thin boughs waving and bending precariously beneath him, jostled by the Alpha's ascent. "Please, stop! You're going to fall!" Al warned.

                A rotten branch beneath the Alpha cracked, but he didn't stop and he didn't slow. He ignored the Omega's warning, misunderstanding it. He didn't speak English. Suddenly, the branch broke altogether.

                "Drop the fucking sword!" Al yelled, but too late.

                The Alpha fell, crashing down through the branches at an alarming speed. He landed hard on the ground, his bones breaking on impact, still clutching the sword in his dead fist.

* * *

Alfred!" gasped Ivan, jogging to the Omega.

                Al leapt gracefully—carefully—to the ground, trying to avoid the Eastern soldier's broken corpse.

                "Are you okay?"

                Meekly, Al nodded. He surveyed the campsite and saw three Alphas lying face-down on the ground. "Did you kill them?" he asked, eyes going to Ivan's sword. It was clean.

                "No, I just knocked them out," he replied, as if it was nothing; as if he wasn't injured and starved and sleep-deprived.

                Al looked up at the violet-eyed Alpha, who was only slightly out of breathe, and said (very seriously): "You're incredible."

                Ivan smiled. "So are you, little one. I'd still be a prisoner if it wasn't for you." He pulled Al into a one-armed hug and nuzzled him affectionately.

                "What about him?" Al indicated the bound-and-gagged soldier, who had resigned himself to spectator.

                "Leave him," Ivan said. "He's not going anywhere until the others wake, which won't take long," he added, a note of urgency in his tone. "We have to go," he said, and Al knew he wasn't talking about returning to the cave.

                "Go where?" Al asked, feeling suddenly cold; hollow. All he wanted to do was return to the cave, which had become as much his home as it was Ivan's. It was safe and warm and belonged only to them, but that brief interlude of his life was over. They couldn't go back there, not to stay. It wouldn't be long before the Eastern soldiers returned, not just a small scouting-party, but a whole company of invaders set to kill both of them, the runaways. There would be no hesitance next time, no capture, only death. "Ivan?" Al repeated, as they started off. "Where are we going to go?"

                Ivan's pace was slow. He leant heavily on Al for support, but there was strength in him yet. He paused for a moment and looked kindly down at Al. "Home," he said simply. "We're going home."

                Al frowned. Then his eyes widened in understanding. "You mean, to the Isles?" he gasped in disbelief.

                "Yes," Ivan smiled. "Your leg has healed well, Al. You're strong enough to travel, so I'm taking you home. It'll be dangerous. The way west takes us through the heart of the Western Empire, and we'll have the Easterners on our scent, but," he squeezed Al's shoulder, "I think we've both proved we're tougher than we look. I think we can do it."

                "Home," Al repeated, letting himself smile. He felt overwhelmed.

                "Yes."

                "But Mattie..." he remembered.

                Ivan nodded. "We'll search for your brother, I promise. But know that you're my priority, Al. I won't sacrifice you for him," he said honestly. Suddenly, he stopped and his face grew grave. "When those soldiers took me, I thought I was done. I was going to be executed for desertion. I didn't think I would ever see you again." Gently, he stroked Al's cheek. Al kissed his fingers in reply. "I'm not going to lose you again, little one. I'll get you home safely, I promise."

                Al didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. He smiled, pulled Ivan close, and kissed the brave Alpha. The handsome Alpha. The Alpha whom he was desperately, helplessly in love with. He kissed Ivan like it was the first time all over again: shy and sweet and chaste and perfect. He felt Ivan's lips curl against his and Al's heart fluttered. He was ready to go home, he realized—ready to take Ivan home with him.

                _This_ , he thought hopefully, _is just the beginning_.

* * *

It was daybreak by the time they reached the cave. Morning sunlight filtered in, bright yet crisp. The days were getting shorter and chillier as summer faded into autumn, and without a fire the cave was cold and moist. It didn't feel like a home anymore, which was for the better. Al and Ivan shared a meaningful look and then wordlessly started to pack what they needed for the journey west. Al wandered to the cold nest that he had built for his Heat, remembering how it had felt to lie there alone and afraid, helpless to the Heat-waves that consumed him. He knelt and absently ran his fingers over the soft, squishy pelts, which were saturated in his lingering scent.

                _I was so ready to be mated_ , he thought regretfully. He had never wanted anything like he had wanted Ivan.

                "Al?" said the Alpha.

                Al looked back at him: pale, bruised, and bloody, and yet—so beautiful. Ivan had discarded his tattered shirt, and his scars gleaned in the sunlight. Al loved them. To him, they were not symbols of shame and disobedience, but of the Alpha's strength and resilience, proof that he was a survivor no matter the cost. He was a protector; a provider. He was someone who was unafraid of life. Every cut, scratch, and lash had forged Ivan into the Alpha he was.

                Impulsively, Al opened his arms, and said: "Come here."

                Ivan frowned, but obeyed. "What is it—"

                Al pulled Ivan down into a deep kiss. It was eager. The dragging friction of wet heat between them tasted like desperation. _I want him_ , _all of him_ , Al thought, pulling the Alpha down by the neck. He wanted Ivan's weight on top of him, but Ivan planted a hand on the bedding to brace himself, careful not to crush Al. Al produced a small whine in protest. "Alfred, what are you—" Ivan started in confusion, but Al's lips silenced him. His lithe hands spread across the Alpha's broad back, rubbing the planes of taut muscle beneath his fingertips. "Al," Ivan tried again, pulling back. He started down at the Omega, whose big blue eyes were bright with lust. Carefully, he brushed back a flyaway strand of wheat-blonde hair, and sighed. "What's wrong?" he asked knowingly.

                Al blinked, taken aback. "I... I don't know," he said, surprising himself.

                Until Ivan had voiced it, he hadn't even realized that something _was_ wrong. But now—now he could feel it. It was mistrust, despite Ivan's promises. The last time he and Ivan had shared the nest, after all, Al had ended up alone.

                "Ivan," he said, feeling uncharacteristically nervous, "you're coming back with me, right?"

                "To the Isles? Yes, I'm taking you home."

                "And when we get there, you're going to stay, right? You're not going to leave me?"

                Al saw Ivan's violet eyes soften in understanding. He bowed his head to the Omega's forehead, and answered the question Al had been too afraid to ask:

                "I'm sorry I left you alone, little one. I promise I'll never do so again. I meant what I said before, I never want to lose you again. And if that means going to the Isles, then that's what I'll do. You're my priority now, Al. I won't leave you. Al—?" he asked, noting the Omega's silence; his doubt. "You believe me, don't you?"

                "Yes, I do. I mean... I want to," Al admitted, feeling ashamed. "It's just... I think I'm scared."

                "Scared of what?"

                "Of losing you. Of you leaving me," he said, putting into words the feeling that had plagued him always, even before he had met Ivan. He feared the fate of unrequited love. He had felt it's bite too many times before and couldn't bear the thought of losing Ivan to it now. " _That's_ what I'm truly afraid of."

                "Don't be," said Ivan plainly. "Don't doubt that I love you, Alfred, because I do."

                Al felt tears of frustration prick his eyes, but blinked them away. "I'm sorry I keep making you say it," he said in apology. "I'm awful, I know. It's just... I can't seem to believe that you really want _me_. That this is really happening to _me_ ," he said in disbelief. "Sometimes, it feels like a dream."

                "Alfred, listen to me." Deliberately, Ivan took Al's hands in his. His tone was stony, but his considerate touch was gentle—as always. "I know that you've been hurt before. I know that you've been cast aside by fools who can't see what I see, but you've got to believe me when I say I love you and I want you and that's not going to change. I'm going to mate you and make you my Omega-mate, Al, and then I'm never going to leave your side of my own free will again."

                "Yes, I want that. I want to be yours," Al said, an eager catch in his voice. "And I want you to be mine. I want us to belong only to each other. I want it now," he dared, lying back in invitation. He wanted Ivan, ready to prove their bond. He felt like he needed it. Once they were mated—pair-bonded—Ivan couldn't ever leave him, which is what the insecure Omega secretly yearned for. He wanted that security more than anything. "Mate me," he said huskily, pawing at the skeptical Alpha, relaying his need in the rhythm of his adolescent body. "Let's do it, Ivan, right here, right now."

                "Al—"

                " _Come on_!" Al urged, but the Alpha didn't move.

                "Alfred," he said, letting a stern growl of authority enter his voice. He held the squirming Omega immobile. "If you don't believe my word now, then me mating you isn't going to change anything. It's not going to make you feel better. I won't mate you," he said decisively. "Not like this. Not here, not now. I won't mate you until you're in Heat. I don't want to hurt you, little one."

                "I'll be fine—"

                " _Not like this_ ," he growled. "Not in a rush. Not with hunters on our scent. I don't want to be distracted. When I mate you, I'm going to do it right. I _want_ to do it right."

                Al exhaled in reluctant surrender. "Me, too," he said truthfully. "It's just..." he bit his lip, "I've already waited for _so long_ , Ivan. I waited for you for three days. I wanted you so bad then, I couldn't stand it. I just don't want to wait anymore, not when you're here with me now. You say that you love me, that you want to mate me and take care of me, but you're torturing me!" he whined. "I mean, don't _you_ want _me_? Aren't I pretty enough—?"

                "You're the prettiest thing I've ever seen," Ivan smiled, "but the answer is still no."

                Al batted his gold eyelashes and pouted, sighing softly.

                "Stop whining," Ivan deadpanned in resolve. "Don't you trust me, Al?"

                "Yes, I do," Al said, but it sounded sulky even to his ears. "I trust you. I love you, that's why I want you to—"

                "Alfred, enough." Ivan pressed a hand to Al's mouth, covering it. His other hand plunged beneath the waist of Al's trousers and coiled around the Omega's cock, producing a startled gasp. Al felt himself go scarlet in reply. He looked up at Ivan, whose lips were curled into a mischievous grin. "I know what it is you really want right now," he said, stroking the Omega from root to tip. Al shuddered. "It's a promise I've already made. This—" he squeezed the slick length; Al whimpered, "—doesn't change anything. It's not the hunger to mate you that keeps me by your side, you foolish little thing. It's you. Just you, my little one. Mating you," he said deeply, voice sending a shiver down Al's spine, "won't change how I feel about you. You've got to trust that. You've got to trust me, okay?

                " _Okay_?" he repeated, mock-stern.

                "O- _oh_ —kay!" Al gasped.

                "Do you trust me?"

                "Yes, _yes_ —! I trust you."

                "Do you love me?"

                " _I love you._ "

                "Good," Ivan said, satisfied. He removed his hand and Al's racing heartbeat slowed; a little relieved, a little disappointed. However, the reprieve was short-lived. Ivan's hands skirted over Al's flat midriff and landed on his hips, fingers hooked into the waist of his trousers, toying before tugging them forcefully off. Al felt cold air attack his naked legs and shivered. He started to sit, but fell back when Ivan splayed his long legs, leaving Al's genitalia on full display. His face reddened even more so, but he didn't fight. He felt anxious. He was not a shy Omega, nude or not, but he had never had a lusty Alpha between his legs before.

                "I-Ivan—?" he questioned, hating the quiver in his voice.

                The Alpha's grin had become a seductive smirk. "Are you afraid _now_ , Alfred Kirkland?" he teased.

                Al swallowed. "No."

                "Good," Ivan said. "You want proof that I love you, that I'm attracted to you? I'll give you proof."

                Then he bowed his head.

* * *

_Ah_! I-I—Ivan, _wha_ —?"

                It was all Al could do not to make a sound as the wet walls of the Alpha's mouth closed around his cock. His hands fell to his sides in fists, idle, giving up as his hips found a slow, thrusting rhythm. It felt so good. Ivan's mouth was hot inside and the pressure he applied as he sucked made Al purr in pleasure. He threw his head back into the pillows and let his eyes momentarily roll back, seeing nothing but bright sunlight and the Alpha's shadow, reflecting his movements. It felt good to be given pleasure like a gift, without having to strive for it; without having to earn it, or compete for it.

                " _Mm_ , _Ivan_ ," he moaned.

                The shape of Ivan's mouth changed and Al knew that he must be smiling. He felt the Alpha's wicked-sharp canines graze the sensitive skin of his cock, which sent a tremor throughout his lower-body. He felt Ivan's searching hands find purchase on his backside, his thumb knuckle pressing down hard enough to make Al whimper and squirm.

                _Oh_ , _gods. What is happening to me_? Al's whole body felt like jelly, except for his aching cock, which was slick and hard, erect with tension. He could feel an orgasm budding in his belly. It was a familiar feeling, and yet— _Oh_ , _fuck_! He had never been touched by someone else before, not like this. He wanted it. He wanted _more._

                " _Oh_ , _fuck_!" he cried breathlessly, squeezing his thighs against Ivan's shoulders. " _Oh_ , _gods_ , _yes—there_ , _there. Oh_ , _that feels so good_! _Oh_ , _I-Ivan_ , _you're incredible_!" he praised, half-mad as he rode the breaking wave of climax.

                Ivan lifted his head, smacking his lips with his dripping tongue. Al lay in the nest, limp and panting.

                " _Wha—What the fuck_?" he gasped, too tired—and satisfied—to be embarrassed.

                Ivan chuckled. Gently, he stroked Al's sensitive golden thighs. "Are you satisfied now, little one? My _hungry_ little Omega. Do you believe me now? Do you want to know _my_ secret?" he asked, leaning down playfully. He grinned wickedly, and whispered: "I've wanted to do that for a _really_ long time."

                Al stared, left momentarily speechless by the stoic Alpha's seductive confession.

                He started to reply, to argue, but he couldn't think of anything clever to say. His mind was still submerged in the aftermath of stormy climax and in the sexy Alpha who had caused it. He merely stared up at Ivan, indulging in the handsome face; the heady scent; the deep, growling voice. It made the _hungry_ Omega's mouth water all over again. That is, until he looked into the Alpha's eyes. Ivan's smile was caddish, but his violet eyes were tender. He was looking down upon the young, blushing, blue-eyed Omega with nothing but love and respect—and the proof of heated arousal that silenced all of Al's previous doubts. Suddenly, he felt foolish about before. How could he have ever doubted Ivan, the Alpha who had rescued him; the Alpha whom he loved?

                Finally, Al relaxed and looped his arms around Ivan's neck. "I think you owed me that," he said arrogantly.

                "I think I did, too. I'm sorry it was late."

                Al pulled Ivan down into a wet kiss.

                "Better late than never," he smiled. "But sweetheart—? Don't _ever_ be that late again."


	18. Lost Boys – Chapter Nine

**BLACK FOREST FORT**

**WESTERN EMPIRE**

Matt awoke abruptly before sunrise, yanked from an abstract, erotic dream by the tense yearning of his aching cock. He awoke hot and panting and slathered in messy Heat-slick, his body curled into a defensive ball in a self-conscious attempt to hide; to contain the desire that flooded him. He hadn't expected his Heat to start so suddenly, with no warning. Then again, Al's Heat had always been Matt's warning, he following his brother's monthly cycles to the day. Al's Heat had occasionally caught him unaware, but Matt had never had to pattern his own schedule before. Like clockwork, it came exactly one week after Al's.

                " _Oh_ , _fuck_ ," he cursed, rolling over. He laid on his back and stared at the high, wooden ceiling. His adolescent cock throbbed. He reached for it—then stopped.

                Gil's heady Alpha scent cascaded over him like a rich, earthy perfume. He was lying asleep on his side of the bed, barely a foot away, peaceful and unsuspecting. Thoughtlessly, Matt moved toward him, desperate for the Alpha's touch. The friction of the bed-sheets grazed the Omega's sensitive skin, forcing him to suppress a frustrated whimper. The instant he came into contact with Gil's warm body, however, there was no suppressing _anything._ He cuddled the Alpha's back, rubbing their bodies together, kissing the pale skin of his neck; his shoulders; his spine.

                "Gil," he whispered, pawing at his sleeping Alpha-mate. Gil grunted. Matt tried again, louder. " _Gil_ ," he said, annoyed.

                Gil's eyes opened slowly. "What?"

                "I'm in Heat."

                " _What_?"

                The Alpha rolled onto his back and stared up at the Omega, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He breathed in, red irises submerged in black as his pupils dilated hungrily. He swallowed, wide-awake.

                "I'm in Heat," Matt repeated impatiently. "I need you to mate me."

                "Now?"

                " _Now_."

* * *

Gil didn't need asking twice. The thick, sweet scent of Matt's Heat saturated their bed linens, enveloping the Alpha in a cloud of pheromones. As soon as the scent filled his nose, his heart began to race, his mouth watered, and his cock twitched in arousal. He wasted no time undressing—he wore little to bed—and found himself groping at Matt's clothes and sweaty skin, egged on by the Omega's breathy whines, which were becoming louder and more insistent. He pawed urgently at Gil. He pulled eagerly and Gil obliged, crawling over Matt's prostrate body, letting his weight down on top of the wet, writhing Omega. Half-blinded by lust, he nuzzled Matt's neck, wanting the Omega's sweat and Heat-scent on him. He licked Matt's skin, wanting to taste him—bite him.

                " _Ouch_!" Matt's yelp became a moan as Gil's tongue lapped at the puncture wounds left by his canines.

                " _Ah_ , _Gilbert_ ," he whined loudly, violet eyes squeezed shut in desperation. He reached for the Alpha's erect cock and pulled it forward in a way that made Gil flinch. His panting voice was a mix of breathy helplessness and irate frustration when he ordered: " _Mate_ " _—hah—_ " _me_ "— _hah_ —" _now_."

                Gil's slick cock slid effortlessly into Matt's body, his girth filling the Omega's hot insides so perfectly that Gil couldn't have crafted better, like a sheath custom-made for a single sword. For a second, neither one of them moved. Matt relaxed into the pillows, breathing deeply in anticipation, his violet eyes still closed; and Gil simply savoured the feel of Matt's body, the feeling of being sheathed. He looked down at his Omega-mate through glassy red eyes and a smile tugged at his lips. Then it was gone and Gil was moving. The pace of his eager, throbbing thrusts created a pulsating friction between them that sent jolts of pleasure throughout the Alpha's entire body. He growled and groaned deeply. It wasn't like before. As good as it had felt to mate Matt without the aid of Heat, this was something entirely different. Gil felt as if he had been blind, deaf, and dumb before, but now he could _feel_ it. All of it. And it felt _good_. The slightest tremor or shiver from Matt rippled into a greater wave of incomparable pleasure; the softest noise aroused the Alpha further, encouraged him; and Matt's scent— _Oh_ , _gods_! Matt's scent was driving Gil wild. He hungered for it like a starving, single-minded beast. He wanted to possess Matt with every fibre of his being. His basest instincts demanded him to claim the Omega again, again; to mark him; to make him—

                _Mine. Mine. Mine._

                Like an addict, Gil sated his deepest desires in Matt, listening to the symphony of Matt's cries. (He had never heard the Omega's voice call so _loudly_ before.) He clawed at Gil's back, throwing his sweaty curls from side-to-side in sweet agony as he gasped and moaned and begged—

                " _More. More. More._ "

                 Too soon, the Alpha climaxed and released the seed of his pups deep inside of his Omega-mate. He laid atop Matt, too spent to lift his own weight—his body felt like he had been electrocuted, struck by lightning—but the Omega didn't seem to mind. Matt was still riding the last echoes of his own climax, his voice softening from the high-pitched cry it had been.

                "Gil?" he whispered, panting. His whole body was trembling with aftershock; Gil could feel it. He hugged the Alpha close, Gil's flushed cheek resting on Matt's chest beneath his chin.

                "Yeah," he answered, feeling drowsy.

                It was a long time before Matt spoke again, and when he did he sounded like he was entranced. Dreamily, he said: "I've never felt anything like that before. That's was amazing— _you're_ amazing, my darling. _Thank-you_."

                But Gil was already asleep.

* * *

Gil left early that morning. He was already gone by the time Matt awoke, feeling anxious and uncomfortable. He could feel another Heat-wave budding inside of him, but tried to ignore it. He only hoped that Gil would return soon to give him the relief he needed. The ache in his cock—his heart—was stronger now that he knew what it felt like to be mated in Heat, and he was desperate to relive the thrilling experience. The question of _why_ Gil had left barely entered Matt's mind before he was drifting back to sleep, whimpering softly as reality blended effortlessly into the familiar haze of an erotic dream. Only, this time, his dream-lover had a face. A beautiful, sharp-featured, strong-jawed, red-eyed face.

                " _Gil_..." he sleep-talked, his voice full of whispered yearning, " _please come back_ , _darling. I need you_..."

                Too enveloped in a Heat-dream, he didn't notice that the bedchamber door had been left unlocked.

* * *

Captain, you're late," said Wolfe glibly.

                The Second-Lieutenant was standing at the head of a lineup of ordered soldiers: their heels pressed together, hands behind their backs, chins held high and straight as they waited obediently for their commander to appear. The party was small, but it consisted of Gil's best combatants. He felt bad for making them all wait in the pouring rain. He hated tardiness. But Gil ignored Wolfe's subtle, disapproving glare as he hurried into the courtyard, still buttoning his jacket—absently into the wrong holes—and thankful for the rain that cleansed him of Matt's Heat-scent.

                "I'm sorry—" he began, and then stopped. He was the Fort Commander. He didn't have to apologize for being tardy, or for anything else. He never had before. _Damn it_ , _Matt_! he blamed his Omega-mate, to whom he had become uncharacteristically considerate. Matt's need to apologize was contagious; Gil did it now in reflex. _They're all going to think I've gone soft_. To save face, Gil cleared his throat and began again. He let a growl into his voice as he conveyed his orders, eyeing each soldier individually to test each one's obedience. He was pleased—relieved—when none could meet his challenging gaze. They kept their eyes respectfully downcast in submission. _Good_ , _I'm still in command_ , he thought, relaxing a bit. Then he looked at Wolfe.

                "Captain," said the Second-Lieutenant shortly, "a word, please?"

                Gil dismissed his Alphas to their duties and followed— _I should be leading_!—Wolfe into the empty armoury.

                "Permission to speak plainly, sir?"

                Gil felt the fingers of apprehension creep over him. He nodded.

                "Captain Beilschmidt, your performance as Fort Commander has suffered since you brought that Omega—excuse me, sir—your _Omega-mate_ to the fort. You've been distracted and disorganized and you've been neglecting your duties, passing them off to Lieutenant Beilschmidt instead of taking them upon yourself. Today you were late, untidy"—he eyed Gil's clothes, which were rumpled and buttoned improperly—"and you smell strongly of your mate."

                "Matthew's in Heat," Gil explained.

                "Irrelevant," said Wolfe coldly. "Bathe after mating him then, because that scent is _very_ distracting."

                "I overslept—"

                "No doubt," Wolfe interrupted. His tone was angry, his words short and sharp. "I'm sure you were _very_ tired after satisfying your Omega-mate, Captain. I'm sure the Alphas were all very tired also, after a night of standing guard in the rain, doing their jobs, and yet none of them were late this morning."

                Gil clenched his jaw. He wanted to argue, to defend himself and Matt, but the truth of Wolfe's words hit him like a physical blow and guilt choked his response. He felt like a young pup being reprimanded and he hated it. He bit back a snarl and glared stiffly in reply.

                "Thank-you for bringing these concerns to my attention, _Second-Lieutenant_ ," he said, struggling to keep his voice even; diplomatic. The words tasted like bile in his mouth. "I will be more attentive in the future."

                "There's a reason Omegas don't belong in military strongholds," Wolfe replied bluntly. "He's nothing but a distraction. The fact that you care more for him than your job—"

                " _I said I would deal with it_!" Gil snapped, drawing unwanted attention from outside. He stepped toward the other Alpha and lowered his voice. "Let me remind you, Wolfe, that _I_ am the Fort Commander here—not you. It's not your place to criticise me."

                "Let me remind _you—Captain_ ," Wolfe spat, eyeing his junior, "that you are currently in violation of our laws; laws you took an oath to uphold, and it's all because of that little bitch—!"

                Gil's fist struck Wolfe hard in the face. The Alpha stumbled back in shock and wiped blood from his nose.

                "Don't _ever_ ," Gil growled in a low, threatening voice, "disrespect my mate again."

                He left the armoury abruptly, leaving Wolfe to contemplate the captain's words. He was fuming; angry at the Second-Lieutenant's accusations and subtle threats; and angry at himself for inviting the criticism. He needed to calm down before anyone else spoke to him; otherwise, he was afraid of lashing-out. Gilbert Beilschmidt was a rather self-disciplined Alpha, but he was not without a temper, which was deadly when provoked. He was doubly-thankful for the cold rain that drenched him as he walked—strut—cooling his hot temper. He had never liked Wolfe, but he had never considered him as a threat before. Now, all Gil could think of was protecting Matt from the Second-Lieutenant's spite. He clenched his fists as he paced (unaware that his Alphas were steering clear of him, giving the captain a wide berth; many looked concerned). Briefly, he considered returning to his quarters to check on Matt, feeling suddenly worried for the Omega's safety, but he ignored the instinctive urge. If he returned now, Wolfe's words would only be proven true: that Gil cared more for Matt than his job.

                _Is that true_? he wondered. He felt conflicted.

                Gil had been the Fort Commander of the Black Forest Fort for two years now, and he had been an officer of the Western Empire for nearly six. He had been called a prodigy more than once, praised for his skills and loyalty. He had always put the Empire first. He had always held a position of command within the army, taking the role his father had left for him: first as a combat instructor, then as a scout-leader. Finally, he had come to the Black Forest Fort as a lieutenant. He had been permitted to bring his handpicked company with him, Alphas (misfits) whom Gil had trained himself. When the former Fort Commander retired, Gil was promoted to captain and chosen by the Kaiser to replace him. His rite had been undisputed, then. It had been a great honour for one so young; a great responsibility. But the bigger honour was that every single one of his Alphas chose to stay with him at the desolate fort, even when given the opportunity to leave. They had stayed—and Gil loved them for it. They had been his surrogate family for so long. The fact that he might be neglecting them now like a distracted parent hurt him deeply.

                _What if Wolfe is right_?

                Gil hated to consider the thought, but Second-Lieutenant Wolfe was not a vindictive Alpha. He was cold and calculating, but law-abiding. He had always served in the Empire's best interest, which is why the Kaiser had chosen him. _He's a heartless bastard_ , Gil thought grimly, _but he's not wrong. I'm not supposed to feel this way about Matt. I care for him more than I should._ _I think it's because—_

                Gil had never expected to care so much for the Omega whom he had found lost in the forest, but...

                _—I'm falling in love with him._

* * *

Matt moaned, pushing his flushed face into a pillow as he emerged slowly from a deep, restless sleep. It took his brain a long time to comprehend where he was, and longer to acknowledge the intrusive slide of possession inside of him, and the fast rhythm of heavy breaths against the nape of his neck. It took him a long time to rouse his mind out of the foggy dream, where  the act was wanted. There was no need to protest the slick girth filling him, though; no need to be afraid of the urgency coiled like a viper in his stomach, ready to strike. Not anymore. It was natural. It's what his body craved; it's what his heart wanted. The feelings of lust and intimacy and affection that flooded him when he thought of his Alpha-mate were strong. He felt safe with Gil.

                _Gil_ , he thought, smiling. His fingers curled into the bed-sheets as his mind awoke, catching up with his body, which was already awake with arousal. He moaned again, his cheek pushed further into the pillow as he consciously began to move his hips in reply to the Alpha's thrusts.

                _Gil_ , he thought, excited. He tried to rise, to look over his shoulder at his handsome Alpha-mate, to smile for him, kiss him, but strong hands held him down with bruising firmness, trapping the weakened Omega between bed and body.

                Matt blinked. _Gil_ —? he thought, confused.

                The haze of pleasure receded quickly into panic when Matt realized with a petrified start that they were not Gil's hands forcing him down. It was not Gil's voice growling overhead. It was not Gil's strong scent filling his nose. It was not Gil's cock thrusting desperately inside him. Any lingering feelings of lust and affection and safety evaporated as pleasure fast became fear and Matt was struck with the cruel reality of what was happening to him. He twisted his head around, struggling to see, praying he was wrong—

                —but he wasn't. The Alpha mating him was not Gil.

                Matt screamed.

                There were no words in the shrill noise that burst from the Omega's lips, just a piercing wail of fear and utter helplessness. He tried to escape, to crawl out from under the Alpha. He thrashed from side-to-side, trying to dislodge him, trying to buck the heavy weight off himself, clawing desperately at the bed-sheets, but the Alpha was too strong, made stronger and more determined by the intoxication of the Omega's Heat. He didn't let go. He didn't stop. He looked as if he was in a trance, consumed by the act. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open as he trust into the Omega. Matt's body involuntarily jerked each time, but his mind was a blank canvas of incomprehensible horror. He barely registered his own terrified screams until they were abruptly cut off by a furious yelp, and the Alpha was pulled aggressively off of him—out of him.

                _What's happening_? he thought, disoriented. Instinctively, he curled into a ball, drawing up the bed-sheets to shield himself as he tried to hide. He was trembling from head-to-toe, and the infuriated roar of an Alpha didn't help.

                Matt's eyes sought the roar's owner, his rescuer, and saw Ludwig drag his attacker across the floor. He threw him hard against the stonewall and proceeded to beat the fighting—spitting, snarling, thrashing—Alpha into reluctant submission. From his huddled perch, Matt could vividly see the Alpha's dark eyes come back into focus, lust yielding to fear when he recognized the lieutenant.

                " _Oh_ , _no_ ," he whispered in German. He looked petrified. " _Oh_ , _no—no_ , _no_ , _no_! _I'm sorry_!" he cried, his nose broken and lips bloody. The physical abuse seemed to revive him. " _I-I—I didn't mean to_! _It was an accident_ , _I swear_! _Lieutenant_ , _please—I-I—I'm so sorry_! _Matthew_!" he gasped in desperation, reaching toward the Omega beseechingly. Matt flinched. " _Please forgive me_!"

                Ludwig's face twisted in disgust, red with anger. His lips pulled back from his teeth and he growled, exposing his canines. He snapped at the soldier and battered his reaching hand aside.

                " _Please_ , _Lieutenant_!" the soldier begged remorsefully. He was shaking, crying. " _I didn't meant to_!"

                Ludwig's reply sent a shiver of fear down Matt's spine. His voice was a deadly growl of forced calm. He said:

                " _Leave_."

                The soldier's eyes widened in disbelief, but not in gratitude. He looked as if he had just been sentenced to the noose. " _But—but—but I can't_! _Please_ , _Lieutenant_! _They'll call me a deserter_ , _I'll be Court Martialed_!"

                Ludwig grabbed the front of his black-and-white tunic and slammed him into the stonewall, silencing him. " _I know_ ," he snarled impatiently. " _I'm giving you the chance to run away. The chance to live_ ," he emphasized, his blue eyes glaring, barely controlling his temper. " _Because if you're here when the captain returns_ , _you'll face worse than a Court Martial. Your days of being a soldier are over_ ," he said unsympathetically, shoving the soldier toward the open door. " _Leave this fort now and never come back_ , _because if you do Gilbert will kill you_. _Go_!"

                The heartbroken soldier took off down the stairs. Matt heard his boots pounding the stone in a hasty escape.

                Matt sat on the bed, stiff as stone as Ludwig's blue eyes captured him. It was very brief. As soon as the Alpha saw the Omega, he looked quickly away and spoke to the floor:

                "Are you okay?"

                The question dislodged something inside of Matt; he felt hot bile flooding his throat. He made an indefinable noise and managed a small, "I'm going to be sick," before launching himself off the bed. He had barely made it to the ceramic washbasin before he was heaving and gagging and vomiting sour stomach fluid. His skin was hot and sweaty, but he felt cold. His body was covered in goose-bumps. And he was crying. He couldn't stop the flow of tears that spilled from his eyes and rolled down his pale cheeks as he choked, trying to expel food that he hadn't eaten. Finally, he slumped against the table, exhausted. He was trembling violently. He couldn't make it stop.

                He flinched when Ludwig draped a blanket over him, but he let the Alpha pull him to his feet and guide him back to the bed. Ludwig kept a hand planted firmly on Matt's covered back, afraid that he would collapse. Matt hated it. He didn't want to be touched. Once in bed, he recoiled. He had never felt so vulnerable in his whole life.

                Ludwig was halfway to the door before Matt mustered the courage to say: "Gil's going to kill me, isn't he?"

                It was said quietly, sadly. His heart felt heavy.

                Ludwig stopped, turned. He looked back at his brother-by-mating-law, whose violet eyes were full of tears that would not cease flowing. "No," he said sternly, "he's not. Gil's not like that. Not unless..."

                He faltered suddenly, hit by a whiff of the Omega's compelling Heat-scent. His nose twitched, and for a brief moment the strong, unmated Alpha's eyes glazed over with lust, but it was short-lived. He shook his head, fighting the instinct hardwired into his DNA.

                "Matthew," he said very seriously, "this is important. Are _his_ pups inside you?" He bobbed his blonde head in the direction of the soldier's escape.

                "No." The Omega's voice was small, but certain. "They're not. He didn't..." He knew the feeling of an Alpha's cock swollen with unreleased seed. He thought of how much it had hurt when Ludwig had inadvertently ripped it out. "He didn't finish," he said honestly. The words were hard to speak. His soft voice trembled, afraid of Ludwig's steely, judgemental gaze. "Please," he begged, "he didn't. I don't have his pups in me, I swear it. Please believe me—"

                "I do," Ludwig interrupted.

                A tense seconds-long silence engulfed them then, but it felt like forever. Matt tried to stop the relentless flow of tears, but failed. He felt lost. Finally, he looked up at Ludwig and helplessly said:

                "Ludwig, what do I do?"

                Ludwig swallowed. He looked immobile, like stone. "You get his scent off of you before Gil comes back."

                His words were practical, but his deep tone resembled a warning, whether intentional or not. Matt nodded in understanding.

                "You're not going to tell him?" he asked.

                "No."

                Then he left. Quickly and abruptly, Ludwig left Matt alone to scrub himself raw in a futile effort to erase the evidence of rape so that Gil would never find out. It was dishonest of them, but he agreed that it would be far worse if Gil knew the truth. The captain cherished his Alphas; his brothers-in-arms. Knowing that one of them had betrayed him—however accidental—would crush him. A silent confidence had passed between the two brothers-by-mating-law as Ludwig left the bedchamber, both of them sharing the desire to protect the red-eyed Alpha, whom they both loved. Trusting Matt's discretion, Ludwig nodded as he left, and locked the door behind him.

* * *

Gil rushed through the day's tasks, barely aware of what he was doing. Since his unpleasant confrontation with Wolfe, he was determined to prove himself as a capable leader, but—to his chagrin—it was difficult. Try as he might, his mind refused to stay focused. He had left his brain back in his bedchamber with his Omega-mate: his beautiful Omega-mate who was in the throes of Heat. Leaving Matt's side that morning had been the hardest thing he had ever done. It had taken every fibre of his self-control to leave the warmth of his bed and sleeping Omega-mate and descend out into the cold, wet courtyard below. But he did it because it had to be done. There was work to do— _always_ work to do at the fort. It was a struggle, but Wolfe was right: Gil couldn't neglect his responsibilities as the Fort Commander because he now had an Omega-mate who needed him. There were many others who needed him, too. Even though Gil's, _ahem_ , heart yearned to be with Matt... who had begged the Alpha to stay with him... who had begged for the carnal pleasure of his cock...

                The captain's mouth watered just remembering it.

                "Captain."

                Ludwig's voice called Gil back from a daydream. Gil nodded, bidding him speak (trying to hide his red face).

                The blue-eyed Alpha's face was stark-white in contrast and his lips were pinched. He looked unsettled. "Gil," he began in private. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

                Gil frowned impatiently. "Lud—?" he prompted.

                Ludwig shook his head. "Never-mind."

                Ludwig's coy behaviour was uncharacteristic, but it was quickly swept from Gil's mind. His private thoughts were preoccupied elsewhere. He raced on through a mental-list of tasks, neglecting to notice the odd looks his Alphas gave him, or how often one of them had to correct the captain's judgement. He was making a lot of mistakes, but, lost in a daydream, didn't even notice. Finally, at high-noon, Gil decided to forego dinner in favour of visiting his Omega-mate. _I just want to check on him to make sure he's alright. I'll be quick._ He raced back to his bedchamber, ignoring the snickers and hidden smiles of his Alphas—and a damning look from the Second-Lieutenant. Heedless of slander, Gil leapt upstairs as fast as his legs would carry him and reached for the bedchamber door, which he was surprised to find locked. He never locked the door; he preferred to be accessible should anyone need him. In fact, the only Alphas who even had a key to the captain's quarters were he and Ludwig. But before he could consider the implications, he heard Matt's soft voice cry-out from within. Discarding any suspicions, he unlocked the door and burst inside, ready—excited—to service his insatiable Omega-mate once more.

                Matt was lying on the bed where Gil had left him, naked, curled onto his side, his lovely face flushed, his eyes closed and lips parted, and his snow-white skin glistening with beads of delicious sweat. At once, Gil's mouth watered hungrily and a low growl of desire reverberated in his throat. _Mine_ , he thought as he advanced, feeling entitled to the Omega; shedding layers of clothing as he did.

                Matt didn't notice his Alpha-mate until the mattress dipped beneath his added weight. His reaction was one of shock. For a split-second, he looked scared.

                Gil chuckled benignly as he crawled closer. "Sorry, _schatz_. Did I scare you?"

                Matt's smile looked forced, but Gil blamed it on the agony of his Heat. "Gil..." he said softly, breathing deep.

                Gil waited a moment for Matt to finish the sentence, but shrugged it off when he failed to do so. The throes of Heat-fervor, indeed. He licked his lips as he drew the Omega's luscious body against his and bowed his head to Matt's neck. The scent was intoxicating. It filled him with lust, urging him to take, take, take. It was a heady blend of soapy sweetness, with an underlying tang that urged the powerful Alpha to take, reminding him that Matt was: _Mine. Mine. Mine_. Gil breathed in deeply, his sensitive nose catching a pale whiff of something mildly offensive before he buried it in Matt's long, unruly curls.

                " _Matt_ ," he growled seductively.

                "Uh—uh huh," Matt stuttered in reply.

                Only then did Gil finally realize that his Omega-mate was not pawing at him like he had done before. He was not trying to seduce the Alpha, or guide him, or pull him forward in need. Rather, Matt's fingertips just barely touched Gil's back. His eyes were closed. And he was trembling.

                Gil sat back on his knees and studied Matt, desire morphing into apprehension as he considered his actions. _What did I do wrong_? he worried. He was seized by the thought of Wolfe's threat and wondered if the Alpha had said or done something to Matt to upset him. " _Schatz_ ," he asked in concern, "are you okay?"

                Matt nodded mutely.

                " _Schatz_ ," Gil took Matt's hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, "what's wrong? Tell me what's wrong."

                Slowly, Matt opened his violet eyes, which were full of unshed tears. He pursed his lips, as if trying to seal the truth inside, trying to be strong, but his resolve was crumbling. Suddenly, he didn't look sexy and needy anymore. He looked scared. His resolve broke—so very scared. In a soft, trembling voice, he said:

                "You left, Gil. I-I—I'm in Heat, and you—you—you left—"

                "Oh, _schatz_ ," Gil sighed sympathetically, flooded with selfish relief. Matt's loneliness wasn't nearly as bad as what Gil had been imagining. He tried to collect Matt into a soothing hug, trying to reassure him: "It's okay, I'm here now." He couldn't deny that Matt's need for him was a very desirable thing. But to his surprise (and confusion), the Omega shied away. "I'm sorry, _schatz_ , but I thought you were sleeping," he explained, trying to justify his actions and failing to do so. The look on Matt's face made him feel guilty: like he had felt guilty for leaving his Alphas to fend for themselves. He tried to apologize, but Matt wasn't listening. Gil had interrupted him before he could finish:

                "—you left the door unlocked," he said, tears rolling down his cheeks.

                Gil froze. The cold fingers of dread squeezed his insides, leeching out the happiness he had felt only minutes ago. He didn't want to think about what Matt's words, his despairing tone, implied. Slowly he removed his hands from the Omega and sat straighter. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, and very deliberately said:

                "What?"

                Matt's guilty eyes were confession enough.

                Overcome with fear and budding fury, he grabbed the Omega's biceps. "Was someone in here? Did someone touch you?" he demanded in horror.

                Matt whined and covered his face with his hands; in shame, or fear—or both.

                " _Matt_!" Gil gasped, his voice rising in volume. "Who was it? Who touched you? Tell me!" he ordered. "What happened? What did he do? Did he—" He couldn't complete the thought, not aloud; the words got stuck in his throat. Instead, he pushed Matt back into a brace of pillows and pulled his wet legs apart, revealing the source of the Omega's sweet Heat-scent. Matt's whole body trembled, but he didn't fight. He let Gil between his legs, searching for a scent that didn't belong. Much to Gil's chagrin, it didn't take long to find. Essence of the other Alpha's scent lingered inside of the Omega's body. _His_ Omega. _His_ territory. It was faint, a mere skin-to-skin touch, but it was distinct.

                Gil bared teeth and roared loudly, seething in anger.

                Matt yelped at the noise, as if struck.

                "I-I—I'm sorry. I-I—I'm so, so sorry," he whispered, voice muffled by his hands; by sobs.

                "Who?" Gil repeated, clutched by murderous intent.

                "I-I—I don't know," Matt lied. It fueled Gil.

                He grabbed Matt's wrists and pulled them away from his face. " _Who was it_?" he yelled.

                Matt shook his head, tears falling freely. Afraid— _so_ afraid—but determined not to reveal the Alpha's identity; trying to protect the weak-willed fool from the captain's wrath.

                That's when Gil realized what he was doing, how insane he seemed. What must Matt think of him? The poor Omega was cowering beneath him, as if Gil was a feral beast. He recognized the symptoms of Matt's panic-attack, like he had once seen in the forest: white-faced, gasping, crying, his whole body convulsing.

                _Oh_ , _no_! he thought as instinct took over. _Don't be scared_ , _Matt. Not of me_. _Oh_ , _please_. _I_ _won't hurt you_ , _my darling. I would never hurt you_. _I—_

                "I'm not going to hurt you," he said, loosening his hold on Matt's delicate wrists. His voice was rough, but he tried to soften it. He tried to soothe his Omega-mate's debilitating panic. "I am _never_ going to hurt you. Please don't be afraid of me. Please believe me, _schatz_."

                "I-I—I'm so sorry," Matt whispered timidly, breathlessly. "I-I—It was an accident. A horrible accident."

                Gil forced back a growl and wrapped Matt in his arms. The Omega's body sunk against him, fingers clutching him for support. "I know," Gil managed gruffly, trying hard to curb his temper; trying to let go of the murderous rage that coursed through him. He felt Matt shudder in reply and began absently stroking his head. He held the Omega in a tight hug—a little too tight, perhaps. He crushed Matt to his chest in an primitive show of strength and dominance and ownership. "It's okay. Don't be scared," he repeated, even as his own voice shook. "I'm here now, _schatz_. It's okay. It's not your fault, it's just a horrible accident. I'm not angry with you, Matt. Not you, my _schatz_. I'm sorry. I should've been here with you. I should've been here to protect you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, _schatz_. It's—

                "It's all my fault."

                Gil's insides twisted painfully. " _Oh_ , _gods_ ," he gasped in realization. " _It's all my fault_."

                "Gil." Matt's lips brushed Gil's neck as he spoke. He squeezed Gil tighter. "Mate me."

                " _What_?"

                Gil tried to pull back in astonishment, but Matt clutched him. He stared down at the distraught little Omega. He had expected Matt to be upset with him, to blame him. He had expected Matt to resent him for not being there, for not protecting him. He had expected to have to beg Matt's forgiveness. Of all the things that Gil had expected Matt to say, it definitely wasn't: " _Mate me_." For one tense moment, Gil froze, thinking perhaps that he had misheard his mate. Then Matt repeated the request:

                "Mate me, please," he begged, growing desperate. "I want it to be you, Gil. Only you. Not him. Please, I need you to mate me and erase his touch, erase his scent." He was crying, clenching Gil's shoulders. "Please, Gil, my Alpha-mate. My darling. I need you. I need your pups inside me. Please mate me, Gil. _Please don't cast me off._ "

                "Whoa, _what_?" Gil's head was spinning. He could barely keep pace with what was happening. He was feeling too many things simultaneously. " _Cast you off_?" he repeated in bewilderment. "No, Matt! Why would you ever think that? You're my Omega-mate," he said fervently, cupping Matt's face. Their eyes finally met: Matt's heartbroken violet staring frightfully into Gil's tormented red. "Matt, I promised to protect you. I couldn't just... I mean, I'd never just... _Just no_!" he said firmly. "I'm not going to cast you off, _schatz_! I don't ever want to lose you!"

                Matt's eyes softened. "You... still want me?" he asked hopefully.

                "Yes."

                _Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes._

"I-I—I want you, too.

                " _Now_.

                "Please, Gil." Matt's voice faded into a helpless, breathless plea as he kissed Gil's cheeks, his jaw, his neck; as he crawled onto the Alpha's lap, arms wrapped securely around his neck; as he pushed his lower-body deliberately to the Alpha's reawakening desire. " _Please_."

                "Oh, Matt," Gil sighed. It was the last coherent thing he said.

                Gil pushed his Omega-mate down and mated him. He mated Matt over and over again until the memory of the other Alpha was drowned in a sea of heat and sweat and slick; and the loud, impassioned cries of the Omega, who moaned and begged his Alpha-mate for more, more, more; and the determined growls and satisfied groans of the Alpha, who complied. Gil didn't go back to work that day. Or the next. Or the next. He stayed in the bedchamber—the door locked—and mated his desperate Omega with renewed vigour, fueled in equal parts by guilt, anger, and desire; repenting for his mistakes; determined to reclaim Matt as his. Only his. And all the while consumed by a feeling less tangible than everything else. It was something that he couldn't quite name or explain, but he knew that he had never felt it before knowing Matt.

                _I think I love you_ , he thought absently, feeling strong and vulnerable at once. His head was foggy, consumed by mating. _I think I love you_ , _Matthew Bonnefoi. My Omega-mate_ — _mine—I love you._

It only ended when both of them were panting and sweat-covered and completely and utterly exhausted, so totally spent that neither of them could move. They laid together in bed, tangled in each other's slippery limbs, neither one saying a word. They laid there just listening to the other breathe. Gil held Matt loosely in his weakened arms. He could feel the Omega's rapid heartbeat against his chest, and was ready to be lulled to sleep by the rhythm of it and Matt's sweet, dissipating scent. He could feel the insistent draw of sleep creeping nearer, but he fought it. He didn't want to sleep yet. There was something that he needed to do. Something that he should have done a long time ago.

                "Matt, _schatz_?" he said. The Omega was so quiet, Gil hoped he was still awake. He wanted to do this now—before he lost his nerve.

                A sleepy sigh sounded in reply.

                Gil took a deep breath. "I have something for you."

* * *

Matt barely registered Gil's words. "Oh, yes?" he said tiredly, feigning interest. It was a struggle to stay awake with his head pillowed comfortably on the Alpha's lean chest. The bed (nest) was so warm, and his body was so exhausted— _so satisfied_. He whined softly in protest when Gil suddenly moved. With effort, Matt pushed himself up onto his elbows, ogling the rippling muscles in his Alpha-mate's corded back as he leant far down over the bed's edge, fishing in a pile of discarded clothes. When he finally resurfaced, he was blushing and clutching something very small in his fist. Matt cocked his tousled head in curiosity.

                "I want you to have this," Gil said. Informally, he took Matt's hand and slipped a ring onto the middle-finger.

                For a moment Matt merely stared at the silver band, his swollen lips parted in awe. Then he looked up at Gil.

                "That's my personal crest," Gil explained. "It's not my Vater's, or my family's. I chose it and crafted it myself. I, uh, thought the black eagle would be good," he said, blushing redder. "I'm not a very good craftsman, though. It's a little rough. It looks kind of big and clunky on your finger. If you don't want to wear it, you don't have to—"

                Matt pressed a finger to Gil's lips to silence him. "Of course I'll wear it," he smiled, flattered. "It's beautiful."

                Gil smiled in reply and visibly relaxed. "I should've given it to you when we were first mated," he added, "it would've been more appropriate, but I didn't think you would've wanted it back then."

                "Maybe not," Matt admitted shyly, "but I want it now."

                In proof, he leant forward and kissed Gil's flushed cheek. "I'm very proud to be your Omega-mate, Gil. I hope you know that. I'll admit, this isn't what I imaged my mated-life to be like, and—gods know—it hasn't been easy for us, but I'm glad it's you," he said honestly. "I'm glad that you're my mate, Gil, and not someone else."

                Gil's vibrant eyes looked softer than Matt had ever seen them. Without breaking eye-contact, he entwined his fingers with Matt's and laid back down. They snuggled close together, but rather than suffocating, it was comfortable. Matt's languid body sunk against the fleece pillows and gently squeezed Gil's hand. It felt good. Gil's proximity made Matt feel safe and protected. Like the silver band on his finger. Unlike Lars' gold band (which adorned Matt's opposite hand), Gil's claiming-gift did not inspire feelings of imprisonment or social obligation; rather, it made the lost Omega feel like he finally belonged somewhere. It might have been a backwards and long drawn-out claiming, but somehow it meant more to Matt because of the things they had suffered together. The simple fact that Gil wanted to keep Matt as his Omega-mate after what had happened to him—after _everything_ that had happened to them both—just proved how committed the Alpha was. _I've never been so happy to be proven wrong_ , Matt thought, gazing at his Alpha-mate. A month ago he had thought of Alphas only as self-serving creatures, but that was before he had met Captain Gilbert Beilschmidt. If nothing else, Matt finally believed—accepted—that he and Gil would be together forever, a fact that made him unexpectedly happy.

                _I'm so lucky to have you_ , he thought, smiling tenderly at the handsome, red-eyed Alpha. _I'm so glad it's you_ , _Gil. I really am._

                "I'm glad it's you, too, Matt," Gil replied. Gently, he rubbed his callused thumb over the silver band.

                Matt pulled their linked hands up to his lips and kissed Gil's knuckles. Then he closed the distance between their bodies, rested his curly head upon the Alpha's warm chest—his strong, beating heart—and closed his eyes.

                "Thank-you, darling," he whispered as he fell effortlessly asleep, "for everything."


	19. Lost Boys – Chapter Ten

**WESTERN EMPIRE**

**WILDERNESS**

_Uh_ , _no—I-I-I—I can't_! _Oh_ , _Alfred_!" Ivan howled, throwing his silver-blonde head back in distress.

                Al clenched his teeth as he tried with all of his might to force the Alpha's hand down against the grass, but to no avail. He didn't have the needed strength. And Ivan's mockery wasn't helping. The pair were lying on their stomachs at the edge of a prickly thicket, facing each other in the grass, their right hands clasped tightly together in a back-and-forth struggle for physical dominance. Well, less back-and-forth and more the Omega throwing all of his weight against the big Alpha, who merely laughed.

                " _Ah_! _Oh_ , _Alfred_! _You're just too strong_! _I can't—I can't—_ Nope," he said suddenly, and slammed Al's hand down easily.

                Al's whole body fell sideways. He looked up at Ivan, who was grinning down at him victoriously, his muscles flexed. "You're such a jerk," he said. Before Ivan could reply, Al grabbed the Alpha's hand with both of his and leapt at him, trying to take him by surprise and force him onto his back. Ivan played along and feigned wide-eyed surprise—badly—falling backward and dragging the Omega on top of him.

                "That's cheating," said the Alpha, his voice a deep, reverberating purr. He threaded his fingers through Al's hair, toying with the Omega's feather-soft locks, drawing their noses together.

                Al's bright blue eyes glared down at him. _How infuriating_! he thought. What he said was a reluctant: "I want you so much right now."

                Ivan's lips curled into an arrogant grin, which he pressed to Al's yielding lips. " _Patience_ , _little one_ ," he said in a husky whisper. It sent a shiver of arousal down Al's spine.

                "Don't do that," Al said, pressing himself closer; nosing Ivan's neck.

                "Do what?"

                "Don't tease me," the Omega said seductively, kissing the Alpha's jaw; his neck; his chest.

                Ivan chuckled, a little breathless. Al felt it in the Alpha's throat. "I'm not the one doing the teasing," he said.

                Al smirked.

                Later, Al found himself wrapped in a fur blanket, cuddled beneath the comfortable weight of Ivan's arm, his head resting on the Alpha's chest. He had always been able to fall asleep easily, anywhere, but with Ivan beside him it was effortless. He simply closed his eyes, feeling peaceful and safe, and awoke hours later. He knew this because the moon's position in the sky had changed, the sky crowded with paling stars. Al yawned in waking, resurfacing from the depths of a pleasant dream.

                "Ivan?" he murmured, meeting the Alpha's reflective gaze. "How long was I asleep for?"

                "Not long enough," said the Alpha indulgently. "Go back to sleep, Al. It's not yet dawn."

                Al fought selfishness, and said: "No, I'm fine. You should sleep for a little while. I'll keep watch."

                "Al—"

                "Sleep," Al ordered, struggling into a sitting position, his blanketed back braced against a smooth tree trunk. "I can keep watch just as well as you can—better, in fact. I'll hear any threat a lot sooner than you will. I'll wake you if I do," he added in appeasement. Then he tipped his head and patted his lap invitingly. "You're not invincible, honey," he said; half-mocking, half-serious. "You need sleep, too."

                Heaving a sigh, Ivan complied. Maybe he was tired, or maybe the pillow of Al's lap was too tempting; either way, he laid down in the soft grass, resting his head in the Omega's lap. Al knew how much Ivan disliked relinquishing control and wouldn't put it past the Alpha to merely fake being asleep for Al's benefit. It was exactly the sort of thing Ivan would do: pretend to sleep, while actually staying alert for danger. It irked Al. _It's been days_ , _he needs to rest_. So as soon as the Alpha settled down, Al began stroking his head in the gentle, soothing way that Arthur did when he was trying to coax his Alpha-mate or pups to sleep. It had never failed to work before, the recipient always falling victim to the Omega's sly tactic, and Al was pleased to see that not even big, strong, tough-fibred Ivan could resist. The Alpha's body relaxed and minutes later he was breathing rhythmically, fast-asleep.

                Al hadn't thought of his parents for a long time. It was a painful thought, but he revisited it now in the quiet of breaking dawn. He thought of Arthur and Francis and his four Alpha-uncles, and how heartbroken they would all be thinking him dead. He thought of Matt, too. He missed his brother desperately. He hadn't been much of a brother in the days leading up to the flood and he regretted it now. Neither he nor Ivan had found any trace of Matt on their journey, and though Ivan was kind, Al knew the Alpha was only searching for Al's benefit. He didn't truly believe that Al's timid Omega-brother could be alive. He had all but admitted it when he had warned Al about the savage Western Empire, which crawled with merciless soldiers. "I've never seen soldiers kill with such cold efficiency," he had said, trying to impress upon Al the importance of staying hidden. The Eastern Empire favoured brute force, whereas the Western Empire was calculating. If the Eastern Army hadn't been the larger force, the West's strategy would have won their engagements. "I wouldn't trust a Westerner half as far as I could fucking throw him," Ivan growled. "I'm sorry," he added when he noted Al's silence, but the unspoken confession hung between them: _If the Westerners found your brother_ , _he's probably dead. And if he's not_ , _he'd be better off that way._ Al tried not to think about it, just like he tried not to think about his heartbroken parents. The only thing that kept his tears at bay was knowing that soon he would be home—if they could survive the Western Empire, that is.

                They hadn't encountered anyone yet, but the evidence of the Westerners' presence was unmistakable. Once or twice, they had stumbled upon an abandoned watchtower and Ivan had grabbed Al by the back of his shirt and thrust him protectively behind him before realizing the absence of any threat. For all of the Alpha's sober self-control, he was becoming more anxious—jumpy—the farther west they travelled. _The Eastern Army really fucked him up_ , Al thought in sympathy. Ivan wouldn't admit it, of course, but Al knew that the Western Army terrified him.

                _Please_ , he prayed, for Ivan's benefit, _don't let us meet any Western soldiers_. Al didn't think the Alpha would be as merciful with any Westerners as he had been with his former Eastern comrades. He didn't want Ivan to have to suffer anymore. It was—honestly—why he was so eager to leave the Mainland.

                _You'll be safe on the Isles_ , he promised, petting the Alpha's silver-blonde head. _My family will protect you. You won't be alone anymore_ , _Ivan_. _You'll never have to be alone again_.

* * *

At sunrise, Ivan stirred. Al tried to convince him to sleep longer, but the Alpha insisted that he had slept for too long already. "I'm fine," he said, even as he rubbed his sore muscles.

                _He's still weak_ , Al knew. The injuries and abuse Ivan had sustained had left his health considerably depleted. He might have been strong enough to wrestle a skinny Omega, but Al worried how he would fare against real danger. It's why he hovered and insisted on doing the menial tasks, like cooking breakfast.

                "I'll do it, you just relax," he said to Ivan, smiling offhandedly.

                Ivan, however, disliked the note of unintended condescension he heard in Al's upbeat tone. He snatched an armful of firewood from the Omega, and snapped: "I can take care of myself, Alfred, I'm not a swaddling pup."

                "Neither am I," Al argued, trying to grab back the firewood. "Just let me do it, okay?"

                "I don't need you to take care of me."

                "Maybe I _want_ to! Did you ever think of that, you stupid, thick-headed Alpha? Maybe I _want_ to take care of my intended mate!"

                They both froze. Ivan's body was twisted away, hugging an armful of firewood to his chest like precious cargo with one hand, while he tried to repel Al with the other; Al reaching around his bulk, swatting indignantly at him. For a minute they merely blinked at each other. The Omega's resolve crumbled first. He tried so hard not to laugh that he snorted loudly, which made Ivan burst out laughing. Then they were both laughing, the domestic spat forgotten.

                "Is this what our mated-life is going to be like together?" Ivan teased, chucking the firewood into a discarded pile. "Are we going to fight over everything, little one?"

                "Probably," Al confessed, beaming up at the Alpha. "I can't wait."

                After a quick fried breakfast, Al treated and re-dressed Ivan's injuries—his chest was healing, albeit slowly—and Ivan inspected Al's leg. It had become so routine for both of them that neither even flinched, trusting his partner's care. Al took extra care with Ivan. He had never been entrusted with delicate medical applications before, leaving it to Arthur and Matt, who were more practised, but Ivan's confidence in him made him feel good about his own abilities.

                They were packing-up their temporary campsite when Ivan suddenly stiffened. Deliberately, he stood and raised his nose to the sky.

                "It's time to go," he announced soberly.

                Al followed his line-of-sight and, squinting, saw a thin spiral of smoke in the distance rising above the trees. The Easterners.

                "Come on," Ivan said, setting off. "We've got to stay ahead of them and we've already lingered here too long," he added grumpily, angry at his body for needing sleep. If Al had allowed it, the injured Ivan would have thrown all of their supplies _and_ Al over his shoulders and then walked day and night until they reached the distant Low Countries.

                _Idiot_ , Al thought, frustrated with the stubborn Alpha. _He'll kill himself if I don't do something._

                "Give me that," he said, stealing a heavy satchel as Ivan reached for it.

                Ivan frowned. "It's too heavy for you, Al. Give it to me."

                "You've got enough," Al declared, slinging the satchel across his shoulders. His knees nearly buckled, but he refused to let it show. "I'm perfectly capable of carrying my share. Now, let's go," he said, and marched off before Ivan could argue.

                The Alpha hid a smile. "Yes, dear."

* * *

Three days later, the Eastern Army was slowly gaining in its pursuit of the deserter and his young Omega companion. Ivan tried to hurry their pace, but it turned out to be counterproductive. Al's leg was healed enough for him to walk, but he still needed time to rest or risk further injury. (Ivan did, too, though he wouldn't admit it.) The Eastern soldiers had the benefit of being healthy and strong, with officers who threatened punishment for anyone who slowed the company's marching pace. Unlike Ivan and Al, the soldiers had no need to hide their presence and cover their tracks as they crashed through the dense Black Forest. If the Western Army were alerted to their presence in the forest, all the better. It would save the Easterners from having to hunt them down to engage them in battle. Ivan and Al were trying to outrun a war. No matter what they did, the fact remained that they were trapped between the Western and Eastern Armies, protected only by the no-man's-land of the forest. But that wouldn't last forever. Sooner or later, they were going to be discovered by one side or the other, and Al knew—when that happened—Ivan didn't have a plan.

                "Al," Ivan said one day, walking a few paces ahead of the tired Omega. "If we're discovered by the West or the East, I want you to run."

                Al scoffed. "And leave you? Not fucking likely—"

                "I'm not _asking_ , Al."

                Ivan's tone took Al by surprise. It was inarguable, as was the look on the Alpha's stony face. His violet eyes glinted like precious stone, cold and hard. Meekly, Al nodded in agreement.

                Yet, they needn't have worried about the West or East, because it was not the Western Army or the Eastern Army who eventually found them.

                It was the South.

* * *

 _Well_ , _look what we've found_ ," said a silky, foreign voice, making Al jump in surprise.

                He had wandered off in search of firewood, refusing Ivan's offer. "No, no, you unpack the sleeping-rolls," he had said, determined to let the Alpha rest. They had been walking for a long time and night was already creeping over the treetops, casting the forest in shadows. Al promised to hurry and not search too far. "If you're not back in fifteen minutes, I'm coming to get you," Ivan warned. Al had rolled his eyes. "Yeah yeah," he said, disappearing like a spectre, the silence of his light-footedness masking his presence. Ivan had already done a perimeter check and his nose had declared the vicinity safe. Al trusted Ivan's nose, but the Alpha was exhausted and the Omega had absently wandered too far. He hadn't realized it until he met a wide river, but by then it was too late. The earthy water had served to cover the Southerners' scent.

                " _What a pretty little Western bitch_ _you are_ ," they said, emerging like faeries from the water. They stepped out of hiding behind thick-rooted trees and dense, slimy water foliage.

                It was rather ingenious of them, Al thought, his heart racing in panic. Unlike the Eastern Army, whose blunt advance was loud and forceful and left nothing hidden, the Southerners—too used to dodging Western patrols—were using the forest itself to disguise their presence so they could advance into enemy territory undetected. Al's defensive Omega senses hadn't even noticed them, and even now he couldn't tell how many Alphas there were. Their reflective eyes glinted in the dying sunlight, like hidden beasts in a fairytale.

                " _Come here_ , _darling_ , _let's have a good look at you_ ," said an Alpha, grabbing for Al. He was soaking-wet, but didn't seem to care.

                Al leapt back. He dropped everything he had collected except for a long stick, which he brandished like a thin sword, despite it being too weak to serve any real damage. Still, he whipped it back-and-forth and growled deep from within his throat. "Stay back!" he warned, baring his teeth.

                " _That's not German_ ," said one of the soldiers.

                " _No_ , _it's English_ ," said another, and then spat to show his dislike.

                Al recognized that the soldiers were speaking in French, but he couldn't understand it. He cursed himself for ignoring all of Francis' lessons.

                Too focused on the soldiers in front of him, Al reacted too late when the stick was suddenly ripped from his hands from behind. " _I know you_ ," growled a middle-aged blue-eyed Alpha, tossing the stick aside. " _You're Bonnefoi's pup_! _What happened_ , _darling_?" he sneered, grabbing Al's biceps; fighting the Omega's protests. " _Doesn't the Western captain want you anymore_? _What'd he do_ , _mate you and then throw you back out_? _Or did you run away from that sadistic_ , _red-eyed bastard_? _Did you miss us that much_ , _sweetheart_?"

                The Southerners laughed. One wolf-howled.

                "Get away from me! Don't you fucking touch me!" Al snarled. Without warning, he thrust his knee viciously into the soldier's stomach, then punched him hard in the jaw before he could recover. He stumbled back as the blue-eyed Alpha buckled, gasping.

                " _Think you're tough_ , _do you_?" said his comrade, cutting off Al's escape. Angrily, he grabbed the Omega's hair and yanked it hard. Al bit back a cry as stinging tears filled his eyes.

                " _Wait_ ," said the blue-eyed Alpha, who rose grudgingly to his feet. His brow furrowed in puzzlement, then his eyes narrowed in realization. " _You're not the same Islander-bitch we found before. But_ "—he leant close to Al, sniffing him—" _you've got the same scent_ , _Bonnefoi's scent. You're definitely his Omega-pup. You smell just as sweet as your brother_ ," he added, pupils dilating in hungry arousal. " _Fuck_ ," he chuckled, addressing his comrades, " _Bonnefoi's mate has been busy_. _Just how many siblings do you have_ , _darling_? _Do they all smell as delicious as you_?"

                The Southerner pressed his nose to Al's neck and inhaled deeply, groaning. Al wriggled and glared. He didn't know what the Alphas were saying, but he knew by the blue-eyed soldier's tone that it was not complimentary.

                " _Fetch Captain Le Roux_ ," he ordered, straightening. " _I think he'll be very interested in our new little friend. I certainly am. I like an Omega with some spirit_ ," he added, licking his lips.

                In reply, Al spat on him and was promptly backhanded across the face. " _Bitch_!" the Alpha growled. The blow knocked the weakened Omega down and left him dizzy.

                " _Hurry_!" the Alpha snapped at his comrades, one of whom hastily departed in pursuit of Captain Le Roux. In a show of animal dominance, he planted a heavy foot on either side of Al's horizontal figure, legs straddling him as he stared down, like a hunter eyeing his prey. " _You're going to be sorry you did that_ ," he threatened. " _I'll admit_ , _you've got more fight in you than your brother_ , _and I like that. But hasn't anyone ever told you how Omegas are supposed to act_ , _sweetheart_? _Maybe I'll be the one to teach you_. _Would you like that_? _I'll teach you to be a proper_ , _submissive Omega-bitch_. _I'll make you howl for it with my cock inside you. Maybe you'll even like it_ , _huh_? _Tell me_ ," he asked rhetorically, nudging Al with the toe of his boot, " _how old are you_ , _darling_? _Are you older than your pretty brother_? _Gods_ ," he purred, leaning down, " _your brother was such a delicious treat. Inferior breeding-stock_ , _of course_ , _being a filthy Islander_ , _but good enough to mate. You're good enough too_ , _darling_ , _even with that scowl. No_ ," he mused tauntingly, " _it's_ because _of that scowl. I lost my chance to mate your brother_ ," he said in a deep, foreboding whisper, " _but I'm not going to lose my chance to mate you._ _I'll taste a fucking Islander if it's the last thing I do._ "

                Impulsively, he grabbed Al's collar and yanked him forward into a rough kiss. Al whimpered in surprise and pursed his lips, but he couldn't turn his head; he couldn't dodge the Alpha's dry lips, which tasted like bitter wine and sweat. He tried to punch the Alpha, but the blue-eyed soldier caught his wrist and squeezed, bruising it. His comrades laughed in cruel delight. Al felt his face heat in fear and embarrassment. _Don't cry_! he commanded himself, even as tears filled his blue eyes. He desperately wanted to yell for Ivan, but he didn't want to alert the Southerners to the Easterner's presence. So instead he stayed fixed there, half-sitting and half-lying in simmering silence as he suffered the Alpha's unwanted jeers and advances, all the while scanning the forest for a feasible escape-route.

                The blue-eyed Alpha wet his lips slowly as he released Al, savouring the taste. " _Mm_ , _delicious_ ," he hummed.

                It was a good thing he thought so, for his sake, because—as it so happened—kissing Al _was_ the last thing the blue-eyed Southerner ever did.

                No sooner had the words left the Southerner's lips, than the blade of a hunting-knife embedded itself deep between his shoulder-blades at the base of his neck and he fell face-first to the ground, dead. Al's eyes went wide as the soldiers howled in outrage. _No_ , _no_ , _no_ —! he thought, his gaze swiveling in the direction of the knife's projection. As expected, he spotted Ivan, already engaged in battle with several Southerners. The blue-cloaked soldiers of the South fell upon him like a wolf pack attacking a much larger predator, spitting and snarling. Blades struck and lashed, tearing Ivan's clothes; his skin. Ivan growled and slashed his sword one-handed in retaliation, using his powerful free fist to beat back the onslaught of enemies, but it wasn't enough. The Southerners were too many and too well-trained, and Ivan was fighting at half-strength.

                " _Ivan_ , _no_!" Al cried in distress. " _Run_!" he begged futilely. He felt angry and frightened as he screamed. And helpless—so horribly helpless. But even as he spoke, Al watched Ivan get struck down. "No! No, please! Don't hurt him!" he screamed, charging thoughtlessly forward. He clawed at the Southerners, trying to pull them away from the felled Alpha, but they merely shoved him back into the restraining arms of another soldier. "Please, let him go! Please, I'll do anything you want, I swear!"

                "Anything—?" asked a gravelly voice in accented English. A moment later, an iron-knuckled hand landed on Al's shoulder. It was strong and twisted, like the gnarled root of an old tree.

                Al froze. He saw the hem of a royal-blue traveling cloak, bearing a black _fleur-de-lis_ ; then an armoured body; then the hilt of a long, sheathed sword; and then finally the weathered face of a grey-eyed Alpha: Captain Le Roux.

                "Bring forth the Easterner," he snapped his fingers, never taking his steely gaze off Al.

                Ivan was forced to his knees and dragged before the Southern Army's cryptic captain, his arms restrained by two soldiers as a third pulled back his head. Ivan's blazing glare made Al nervous. He was so afraid that the stubborn Alpha would try to fight, or do something as equally reckless and get himself killed. _Stay down_ , Al silently begged. He tried to convey the message in his anxious expression: _Please_ , _if you love me at all_ , _Ivan_ , _you'll stay down_! Ivan's jaw clenched unhappily, but he didn't move. Le Roux merely cocked an eyebrow at him in disinterest, and then returned his gaze to Al.

                "Bonnefoi certainly found himself a productive Omega-mate, didn't he?" he said, recycling the observation of his now dead officer. "I've already had the pleasure of meeting your lovely brother, dear, albeit briefly. He smelled just like you; though, that was before the Fort Commander mated him. After it, he smelled like that damned Westerner. I expect he still does—what a waste. If he's even still alive, that is. I've heard that Western Alphas sometimes beat their Omega-mates to within inches of their lives to teach them obedience; more often as not, the poor little Omegas don't survive. Barbaric, isn't it?"

                Al's face paled. "What in hell are you talking about?"

                "Your brother, dear. He has—had?—the most beautiful violet eyes. And such soft skin. It's a real shame that he's nothing more than a Western-whore, now."

                "My brother is _not_ a Western-whore!" Al snarled fiercely in denial.

                "Yes, he is," Le Roux shrugged fluidly. "Or, haven't you heard? Bonnefoi's pretty Omega-pup was captured by the Fort Commander of the Black Forest Fort. That's the Westerners' stronghold, dear." He pointed in an ambiguous direction, presumably toward said fort. "He's a cruel Alpha. It's said that his eyes have turned permanently red from bloodlust. I've seen it, it's true," he teased. "What, you don't believe me? Well, you'll see soon enough," he added in a malicious tone. "I almost pity your poor brother. Being such a degenerate Alpha's mate is a fate worse than death, and if you think he's the only one who's had a taste of your pretty brother, then think again. It's a fort, after all. How many Alphas in there haven't touched an Omega in months? Killing him would be a mercy, now—"

                " _Stop it_!" Al shouted, his teeth bared; fists clenched. " _Just stop it_! I don't believe you! You're a fucking liar!"

                Le Roux heaved a sigh of mock-pity. "And if I'm not? If I'm telling you the truth? Do you really want to risk it, little Omega? I know where your poor brother is. And I'll help you rescue him... _if_ he's still alive, of course. I'll help you if you help me."

                "And why the hell would I do that?" Al spat rudely.

                "Because if you don't," said Le Roux simply, "then I'll disembowel your unlucky Alpha friend here and now."

                Before Al could protest, Le Roux drew his sword and stalked purposefully toward Ivan's kneeling figure. The blade had already nicked the Easterner's snow-white neck, producing a trickle of blood, before Al tactlessly hollered:

                " _No_ , _stop_!"

                Le Roux turned slowly, his head cocked. "Oh—? You did say you'd do _anything_ to save this Alpha, didn't you, dear?"

                Al fell silent. He felt sick.

                Le Roux chuckled and lowered his sword. "You've made the right choice," he praised, reading Al's blue-eyed face like a book. Promptly, he retreated to the Omega's side and belittled him further by ruffling his hair. "Think of it this way," he said diplomatically. "By aiding me in my noble crusade, you... Oh, I'm sorry, what was your name, dear?"

                "Alfred," choked Al.

                "Alfred," Le Roux repeated, grinning. "By aiding me, you have a chance to save your beloved brother from a fate worse than death, as well as the life of this Easterner, whom I assume is your intended Alpha-mate—? Yes," he said, stroking Al's cheek in a mock-paternal way that made the Omega's skin crawl. "And the price for both of their safety is just one little fort that you owe no loyalty to, and a few villainous Alphas whom you don't even know. Once I've gotten what I want, I'll let you, your brother, and your surly intended go. I promise. Come now, I'm being more than generous, little Alfred. It's much more than what a blood-traitor's spawn deserve."

                Al swallowed a mouthful of bile and squeezed his fists tight, fighting to keep his voice even. "What exactly is it you think I can do?" he asked quietly.

                "Nothing, _chéri_."

                Al visibly flinched. _Don't_ , he thought, infuriated. _Don't you dare use my Papa's endearments_ , _you bastard_!

                "All you have to do is show your pretty face, Alfred," said Le Roux. He slapped Al's cheek. "That's all. You're nothing but my leverage. See, in some devilish way I think that Beilschmidt really does care for your brother. It may be love; it may be greed. I saw the look on his face. Either way, I'm willing to gamble his fort against your safety, little Omega—the safety of his brother-by-mating-law. Beilschmidt's weakness is his blood loyalty.

                "You, Alfred Bonnefoi," said Le Roux, smiling darkly, "are my ticket to destroying the Black Forest Fort—and everyone in it."

* * *

Le Roux's Alphas bullied Ivan into rope bonds that chafed his wrists and ankles and restricted his movements, forcing him onto his stomach in the grass like a serpent. His face was black-and-blue and swollen where the Southerners' fists had struck; his nose was bloody. Al begged to be allowed to go to him and was permitted by Captain Le Roux, who—rightly—believed that Ivan's bondage was enough to hold Al as well without needing ropes. He wasn't going to escape without the Easterner and Le Roux knew it. He was a very cautious, conniving leader, not unlike the Westerners that Ivan had warned Al about.

                _These Mainlanders all rely on tricks_ , he thought spitefully.

                In the isolated northern clans of the world—the Isles, the North, the Eastern Empire—physical strength was valued above all else. Omegas were expected to breed big, strong, healthy Alpha-pups; Alphas whose worth was based on his own talents. A hunting-party operated together as a pack, but each member was expected to contribute his own individual strength. Hunters had little patience—or respect—for the physically weak. It was why the Islanders, and the Northerners, Al remembered, chose leaders by trial-by-combat. Only the strongest were expected to survive in life, and few packs wasted time nurturing Alpha-pups who couldn't contribute to society. Omegas, too, were expected to be strong—in an Omega-like way. Omegas needed to be able to give birth to as many pups as possible. A productive Omega was praised for his contribution to the pack. The fact that Francis and Arthur only had two Omega-pups was enough to invite ridicule (in secret, of course; nobody dared insult Scott Kirkland's family to the short-tempered pack-leader's face). Neither Scott nor Francis had an Alpha heir, and it was Arthur who was blamed for it. "He should have died when he caught the cold-death as a pup," Al had heard the pack-members say. "The medicine-man refused to doctor him, knowing him too weak. It's only by the will of the gods that he's alive today, nothing more." Al, however, disagreed. Arthur might have looked small and frail, but looks were often deceiving and Al's Omega-father was, truly, one of the toughest clan-members he knew. The fact that Arthur hadn't conceived more brothers or sisters for Al was not something that Al cared about. Why should an Omega dedicate his life to birthing pups for his Alpha-mate? Why did they do it? Could it be for society's praise, or did Omega's genuinely desire it? Was it hardwired into their DNA? If so, Al was missing that particular gene.

                _I want my life to mean something_ , he had always thought. _I want to do something great. I want history to remember me_ , _not my Alpha-pups._

                But it seemed that the Southerners disagreed. Since Al had journeyed to the Mainland, he had surmised that Omegas were even less versatile here than on the Isles. They were expected to breed as many pups as possible, strong or weak. It didn't matter, because the Mainlanders didn't value physical strength as much as they valued bloodlines. As long as their leader was of a sovereign line—inbred, or otherwise—he was not required to be strong. He needn't be; he had the command of armies at his disposal, after all. Unlike the Islanders and Northerners, who fought together as a pack, or the Easterners, who favoured brute force, the Westerners and Southerners used shadier tactics to achieve victory. They may have called it strategy, but Al called it trickery. It was manipulative and unfair; that's what his uncle Scott would have said:

                "An Alpha should be strong and proud enough to take responsibility for his own actions (and the actions of his family). There's no honour in tricks and blackmail."

                It's why Al had trained and practised so hard to strengthen his skills, so that his family and his Alpha friends would see him as more than just a weak Omega. He wanted more than anything to make his family proud, but—try as he may—he couldn't compete with the Alphas if he played by their rules. His biology was adapted to other talents. He couldn't hunt with his nose, so he hunted with his ears; that wasn't such a big deal. His hunting-partners had always been intrigued by it, like Lars had been. However, physical combat was different. Al had tried and tried and tried to defeat his Alpha friends in fair hand-to-hand combat, but his body was not naturally built for combat and he always lost. (Al _hated_ losing.) Sooner or later, he always fell back on his tricks—like a sneaky Mainlander. He felt guilty about it, of course. Scott hated Alfred's tricks (which had even managed to lay the fearsome pack-leader out on his back once or twice), but without relying on his tricks, Al was as useless a fighter as any other Omega. He might have been bigger and stronger than the average Omega, but it wasn't enough to defeat a big, healthy Alpha. Maybe that's why he felt so critical of the Mainlanders who used such sly tactics, because Al had always been so critical of himself.

                "Trickery is not the Islander way," lectured Scott in Al's head. "Tricks are for cowards."

                _I think Captain Le Roux would disagree_ , Al thought. The Southern captain's cold logic seemed to be victory by any means necessary. He seemed almost anxious— _excited_ —to attack the Black Forest Fort. Al got the impression that he had been waiting a long time for a tactical advantage over the Western captain, whom he clearly thought of as a rival. _The Beilschmidt-pup_ , as Al had heard him described, must be a very formidable opponent for Le Roux to go to such lengths to achieve victory. Al thought it all seemed rather personal. He wondered what the Westerner had done to earn such a black reputation in Le Roux's opinion.

                _Captain Beilschmidt_ _is the one who has Matt_. The thought twisted Al's stomach, but he steeled his resolve.

                _Don't worry_ , _Mattie_ , _I'll find you. I'll rescue you from that place_ , _I promise_. _I'll protect you from this awful war and we'll go home together. All of us_ , he added, looking down at pale-faced Ivan. _I swear_ , _I'll get us out of here_ , _even if I have to use tricks to do it._

                Al ignored the snide looks that the Southerners gave him and sunk to his knees at Ivan's side. He cradled the Alpha's silky head in his lap, and whispered: "It's going to be okay. I'm here, sweetheart." The gesture of soothing his intended mate calmed Al's nerves. He combed his fingers delicately through Ivan's hair and was rewarded by a gentle sigh. Ivan pressed his cheek against Al's thigh. His swollen, discoloured eyelids remained closed, even as he spoke.

                "Al," he said quietly. His voice was sluggish. "You need to escape. At the first chance you get, you need to—"

                "Shut it," Al interrupted.

                "Alfred." Ivan's violet eyes peeled open, looking soft. " _Please_."

                "Ivan," Al replied in a gently reprimanding, maternal tone, " _no_. I'm not leaving you here to die, sweetheart."

                Ivan was about to reply, but stopped when a Southerner cleared his throat in an attention-seeking way. He was young, maybe twenty, and had eyes the same stormy-grey as Le Roux's, though this Alpha's look was much softer.

                "I was told to... that is, my Alpha-father—I-I—I mean, Captain Le Roux," he corrected hastily, "permitted me to, uh... See, I'm the company's chief medical officer," he stuttered, blushing nervously. "I thought you might let me... That is, I thought I could help."

                Al considered the timid soldier, Le Roux's Alpha-pup. He was standing with his knees pressed together shyly and hugged a large burlap satchel to his chest like a shield. His English was good, better than any other Southerner Al had yet heard, including Le Roux. He read a rare intelligence in the Alpha's self-conscious eyes.

                "Please—?" he asked, reaching tentatively for Ivan.

                Ivan growled, his lips pulled back from large canines. The Southerner snatched his hand back, as if bitten.

                "Please, I can help," he repeated, addressing Al. His eyes were big and round; not so alike Le Roux's after all. "I have a poultice that will soothe the infectious spirits poisoning his body," he explained, pointing to Ivan's wounded chest. "He is very strong, but the disease will claim his life if he does not purge the poisoned blood. It will turn his skin black. He won't survive. In a couple days, he'll concoct a fever... and he won't recover from it. It's a miracle he's lived this long. Please," he begged Al, bowing his head. "So many soldiers will die when my Alpha-father—when _Captain Le Roux_ lays siege to the Black Forest Fort, and I'll be powerless to help any of them. I'm not trying to trick you, Alfred Bonnefoi. I took an oath as a healer. Please, let me help you now before it's too late."

                Silently, Ivan reached up and took Al's hand, and he squeezed it—hard. Frightened. " _Nyet_ ," he whispered.

                Al held Ivan's hand and pet his head in comfort. "I'm here," he said. "It's okay, I won't let him hurt you. Trust me, Ivan."

                Ivan didn't speak, he only grunted as he buried his face against Al's middle. It was as much consent as he was going to give. Al nodded at the Southerner.

                He looked relieved as he began laying out the tools of his trade. His fingers were long and exceptionally fine-boned for an Alpha. He worked nimbly, cleaning, treating, stitching, and bandaging Ivan's injuries. Al assisted where he could. He removed Ivan's tattered shirt with a medical-knife. ( _That was the last one_ , Al noted. Ivan was very hard on clothes.) Ivan clenched his teeth and fists and grimaced in discomfort, and buried his face in Al's shirt to muffle the noise of a pitiful whine. It reminded Al of his sulky uncles, especially Scott—who whimpered like a newborn when injured (he really hated needles)—and endeared the Easterner to him even more. But it wasn't only the pain that bothered Ivan. It was also the necessity of being tended to by another Alpha, especially an enemy. He hated feeling weaker than a rival. Al held him and stroked his head and talked quietly, constantly, trying to distract him.

                "Does the Black Forest Fort really have my brother?" Al finally asked softly.

                He couldn't pretend that the horrible thought didn't bother him. He had to know for certain. He didn't trust Le Roux's word, but for some reason he _did_ trust the captain's timid Alpha-pup. He looked afraid of lies, and fear was a powerful motivator. Fear and love.

                The Southerner's head snapped up, shocked by Al's candidness. He swallowed, then nodded. "I'm sorry."

                The Southerner re-packed his tools and quickly left, and Ivan emerged from the safety of Al's lap. Hissing in pain, he shifted into a lopsided sitting position; knees bent and wrists and ankles bound. Al wanted to scold him and tell him to lie back down to rest, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He felt suddenly hollow, bone-tired. And Ivan looked so pitiful. Yet, the Alpha's body-language was protective. It invited the Omega to come close and be comforted by the Alpha's touch, however restricted. Ivan's violet eyes said: _Come here_ , _little one. I'll keep you safe_.

                _I love his eyes. They're so beautiful_. _Like Matt's_.

                Obediently, Al crawled to Ivan's side. Ivan kissed his cheek and tasted tears. Al had started crying without even realising it.

                "It's okay, Al," he said in that deep, rumbling voice that Al loved, even though it made the Omega feel small. Small and precious, not weak. "Tell me," Ivan said, nuzzling Al's temple. "Tell me how to make it better."

                Al's lip trembled as tears flooded his eyes. He couldn't make them stop. "You can hold me," he whispered. In surrender, he lifted Ivan's bound hands and ducked into the circle of his embrace, letting the Alpha's strong arms drape heavily over his shoulders. He felt the pressure of Ivan's hug as he laid his head down beneath the Alpha's neck, and felt the vibration in his throat when he quietly said:

                "Yes, little one, I can do that."


	20. Lost Boys – Chapter Eleven

**THE LOW COUNTRIES**

Arthur, _chéri_ , it's time to go."

                Arthur was standing atop a shallow incline, surveying the wreckage of the village. The floodwaters had receded, but the damage done to the Low-Landers' homes, fields, and storehouses would cripple their chance of surviving the winter. They would have to work fast to make repairs and empty all of their coffers to purchase food now that the growing season was over. The free-trade agreement that they had just signed with the Islanders might be the only hope many Low-Lander families now had of dodging starvation.

                It was late-October; the heart of the harvest season. At home, Owen would be managing it all. He was a good hunter, but a better judge. He was fair and everyone trusted him to distribute the gains of the harvest to ensure that every family had enough to eat; oft times reminding them—the hunters, like Scott—that their diets needed more than just meat to stay healthy. Arthur missed Owen. And Liam and Patrick, whose scouting-parties would be guarding the pack against thieves and butchers, protecting the harvest from rival packs whose harvests were not so plentiful. If Scott were home, he and his hunters would be leaving for the last hunting trip of the year—which was a month-long excursion—and Al would be upset that he couldn't go. Instead, he would neglect his chores and run off with Liam and Patrick, playing at being a warrior. Arthur was always bothered and worried by  it, but Francis let Al go. He reminded his Omega-mate that Al could cause much less trouble running around the perimeter than he could getting in the way of the harvest. Francis was in charge of doing the inventory; he was good at sums. He kept logbooks, something that the Islanders had never done before, and something which Scott had initially scoffed at. But time had proven the tediousness of bookkeeping useful, especially wherein petty disputes were concerned. Besides, Francis had the nicest handwriting of any pack-member. He had taught Matt to write neatly as well, and Matt sometimes helped out when Arthur didn't need him elsewhere. Because Scott didn't have an Omega-mate, Arthur—as the second-in-command's mate—held the most senior Omega position in the pack, which kept him busy. Matt's assistance was often a blessing, but, unlike with Al, the family tried to keep Matt confined to the house during the harvest season for two reasons:

                Firstly, with all of them working such long hours elsewhere, they needed someone to keep the household in order. Without Matt, they would all return each night to no supper, no baths, no clean clothes, no rest; they wouldn't have anyone to bring them dinner at noon, and tea later on; they wouldn't have anyone to soothe their sunburns or treat minor injuries. Simply put, they wouldn't have anyone to take care of them. And more than anyone else, the four Kirkland Alphas _needed_ someone to take care of them. They were a pitiful, undignified sight when left to themselves.

                And secondly, the harvest was a very busy time with lots of inter-clan business taking place. Tradesmen and merchants flocked to Scott Kirkland's pack—it was one of the biggest packs in the whole clan—which filled the village with strangers. The day a wine merchant had tried to abduct twelve-year-old Matt was the day Arthur and Francis had decided to stop letting their timid Omega-pup run about the village unescorted. If Al hadn't attacked that Alpha—wild and fearless; other clan-members had had to pry Al's teeth from the merchant's bicep—then they might have lost Matt that day for good.

                Arthur had always felt bad about restricting Matt, which is why he was more lenient than the Alphas, but he still worried. He worried about both of his pups, who had developed in such different ways. He worried about both of them getting hurt by different things and for different reasons. He worried about what people said to them and about them, and about what people thought of them. He worried about their futures in the pack, and often worried about what kind of Alpha-mate each of them would someday pair-bond with. Sometimes, he prayed for good, kind, strong Alphas to mate his pups for their own safety, and for his own peace-of-mind. Other times, he prayed that neither of them ever found an Alpha-mate. The thought of losing Al and Matt had always throbbed at the back of Arthur's mind, but he had resigned himself to it, as every Omega-parent must. Al and Matt were too valuable to keep locked away, they couldn't stay with the family forever. He was always going to lose them in some way or another.

                But not like this. Never like this.

                Arthur felt tears pool in his eyes as he looked at the broken floodgates, the wide canal, and the forest beyond.

                It had been two months. Scott and Francis and the Low-Landers had been searching the Low Countries and surrounding regions for two months while Arthur waited and worried (and cried). They had combed the landscape for any sign of Al and Matt, dead or alive, but they had found nothing. Nothing. There was no sight, no sound, no scent of the Omegas. Nobody could find a trace of them. It was like Arthur's pups had never existed at all. They were just gone.

                "Arthur," Francis repeated gently. He placed a hand on his Omega-mate's slight shoulder; even slighter now that he refused to eat. "It's time to go."

                Go. They were going, leaving, leaving Al and Matt. After two months of searching—hoping—they were finally giving up and going home. They were leaving Al and Matt behind.

                Arthur thought he had cried all of his tears by then, but they rolled down his cheeks, now. He didn't care who was watching anymore; at this point, everyone had seen him cry. He arched his shoulders and clutched his stomach and bowed his head and he cried; teeth clenched, body trembling. Francis pulled Arthur close and tightly wrapped his arms around him, but he didn't speak. He was finally despairingly bankrupt of promises and reassurance, and he, too, was grieving for his pups—silently, stoically. Arthur could feel it.

                "I-I—I can't l-l-leave..." he whispered, clutching Francis. After two long, desperate months, leaving the Low Countries would be finally admitting that Al and Matt were dead. "I-I—I can't l-l-leave them, Francis... I-I—I _can't_."

                Arthur felt Francis' chest expand as he took in a deep breath. His voice was horse when he spoke. It sounded tortured as he forced out the words:

                "We have to. It's time."

                Time to accept it. Time to go home.

                Francis and Scott all but carried Arthur onto the ship. Arthur kept his head bowed. He felt heavy, weighted down by grief that he knew he would carry for the rest of his life. Omegas didn't recover from the death of their pups. They just didn't. He kept his head bowed, even as the Clan Leader of the Low Countries conveyed his deepest sorrows and regret. He apologized again, but Arthur didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to see the Clan Leader or Lars, who stood solemnly aside. Every time Arthur looked at them he felt sick with guilt. _It's all my fault_ , he thought regretfully. _I should've stopped it. I shouldn't have let Alfred and Matthew come here._ Arthur didn't want to see sympathy on the Low-Landers' faces; it only made him angry. What did _they_ have to be sorry for anyway? What had any of _them_ lost? He didn't want to look at Scott either. Every time he did, he was torn between wanting to hug his brother for support, and wanting to lash-out and claw at him for letting this happen. In the end, he chose the former.

                Arthur stood at the stern of the ship, watching the Low Countries slowly fade away into the fog. Scott stood on his left, holding his shoulders; Francis stood on his right, holding his waist. Maybe they wanted to comfort him, or maybe they wanted to prevent him jumping overboard. Either way, Arthur was—deep down—glad for their presence. He didn't know what he would have done without them. He didn't know what he was going to do without Al and Matt. How did you recover from a broken heart?

                As a thick fog swallowed the last sights of the mainland, Arthur closed his eyes and saw his pups in his mind. He saw them as newborns, as toddlers, as children, as youths, and finally as adults: just as they had been the last time he had ever seen them. They were both so beautiful. They had been his beautiful, perfect pups since the day they were born.

                _My Alfred_ , _my Matthew_. _I love you. I love you more than anything in this world or the next. I'll always love you_ , _my pups._

 _My beautiful_ , _perfect pups..._

                _Goodbye_.

* * *

**BLACK FOREST FORT**

**WESTERN EMPIRE**

Matt awoke suddenly, gasping for breath. The rapid floodwaters of his nightmare receded as the bedchamber came back into focus. He had dreamt of the storm again. The memory of it still frightened him. Even now, his waking-mind could see Al's pale, terrified face as he clung helplessly to the canal wall, and he could hear his parents' screams, even though he hadn't heard them at the time. He felt guilty as he reached up and wiped tears off of his cheeks. It had been two months already since that tragic day; his family probably thought that he and Al were dead. For all Matt knew, Al _was_ dead, and that thought hurt more than anything else.

                A soft whine escaped him, and he pressed a hand to his mouth before he woke Gil. Gil had been sleeping like a rock lately, falling unconscious the moment his head hit the pillow, only to be roused four or five hours later by his Alphas. Matt did whatever he could to ease his Alpha-mate's discomfort, but Gil's fire was slowly burning out. Gently, he pulled a blanket up over Gil's bare shoulder and laid down next to him, resting his head against the Alpha's bicep, taking comfort in his close proximity; his scent and body-heat. Since the beginning, Matt had always felt safe with Gil, and over the last two months those feelings of security had been slowly yielding to affection. If anything happened to Gil now, Matt didn't know what he would do. Not only because he would be abandoned once again in the heart of a war-zone, but because he would lose someone he deeply cared for. Until Al, Matt had never experienced that feeling of loss before. That horrible, sickening feeling of utter helplessness. He hated it; was afraid of it. And Gil had become the closest friend Matt had ever had. Al would always be his twin-brother, but Gil... maybe Gil was something more.

                _I can't lose you_ , _too_ , he thought, pressing a kiss to Gil's arm.

                On top of everything else, Gil had never stopped trying to track Al's whereabouts. He had ordered all of his scouting-parties to report any sign of Matt's twin-brother, however miniscule, though no one had found anything yet. Even so, Matt appreciated the effort. Gil didn't know Al, after all, and had no reason to waste his time and resources searching for him; just like he had no reason to send messengers to the Low Countries in an attempt to contact the Kirkland family, but he did that, too. Not that any of his messengers had been able to slip past the Southern Army. Le Roux had been weaving a web around the Black Forest Fort for a lot longer than Gil knew, cutting the Westerners off from everything. The Southern Army had been intercepting all of Gil's messages until he had finally stopped sending them. It was a crushing tactical defeat. By preventing all communication with the Great House—the Western Empire's capital—Le Roux had ensured that Gil couldn't send word for aid or re-enforcements. He had ensured that the Black Forest Fort and everyone in it were on their own.

                Gil hadn't actually told Matt any of this, of course, but nor did he deliberately keep secrets from his Omega-mate, and Matt had seen enough letters and overheard enough angry conversations to know that the Southern Army's advance had isolated them. It was only a matter of time before Captain Le Roux laid siege to the fort, and then what? What would Gil do when that happened? What _could_ Gil do, except abandon the post he had been trusted to protect?

                Matt closed his eyes and tried not to think of it.

                Maybe Al was better off, after all... wherever he was.

* * *

**WESTERN EMPIRE**

**WILDERNESS**

I need you to do something for me," Al said quietly to Thierry, Captain Le Roux's Alpha-pup. "It's really important."

                Thierry looked at Al's flushed face, his fervent eyes. "Are you okay?" he asked in concern.

                "No," Al replied.

                It had been nearly a week since Le Roux's Alphas had captured he and Ivan, and three weeks since they had set off for the Low Countries. Al had been so distracted since then, he hadn't stopped to consider that nearly a month had passed since his last Heat, and if his math was correct, then... Nervously, he glanced around the crowded camp of Southern soldiers, dozens of unmated Alphas lounging about in boredom. Whenever a pair of eyes landed on him, he felt the owner's hunger. Al wondered how many of them were sensitive enough to know that he was in pre-Heat, and that he would soon be reduced to a desperate, writhing ball of hormones helpless to reject any Alpha who approached. The mere thought twisted Al's gut and made him breakout in a cold sweat; or, maybe that was because his body felt so uncomfortably hot. Regardless, he refused to let it happen. He wouldn't be mated by anyone except Ivan, even if that meant taking extreme measures to prevent his Heat at all. He looked down at Ivan, who was sleeping soundly on Al's lap, and gently squeezed his intended's big hand, drawing courage for what he was about to request.

                "Do you have these ingredients?" he asked Thierry, handing him a list he had scratched onto a piece of bark.

                The medic's grey eyes scored the list, then he frowned. "Uh, yes, but... Alfred," he said apprehensively, eyeing the Omega, "half of these ingredients are poisonous. And the doses you've indicated are dangerous. What is this for?" he asked dubiously.

                "It's a potion to stop an oncoming Heat," Al answered.

                Thierry's frown deepened, then his eyes grew big and round in embarrassed realization. "Oh! Oh, you mean that you're... Oh."

                "This is really important," Al repeated, injecting as much urgency into his tone as possible without betraying fear. "If I don't take this potion soon, I'll go into Heat sometime within the next forty-eight hours. _That can't happen_ ," he emphasized. "Please," he said, folding Thierry's hands around the ingredients list.

                It was the only potion Al knew how to brew by heart, not because Arthur had taught him, but because he had stolen the recipe from his Omega-father's book. A private book, which Al and Matt had been warned against touching. Scott often teased Arthur, calling his talent for healing _witchcraft_ , which bemused the other Alphas, much to Arthur's chagrin. But Al had seen more than one Omega come to the pack-leader's backdoor late at night to beg potions of Arthur Kirkland; potions that the pack apothecary refused to prescribe. Al had stolen the recipe the first time because he couldn't accompany Scott's hunting-party if he was in Heat, and he had really wanted to go. It was the first time he had been invited on a _real_ , month-long excursion—and Alec Frasier had been going, too. He knew the potion would make him sick for a while, but that's also why he trusted it to work. It was an aspect of the body's natural defenses to protect itself when internally attacked. Even if an Omega was in pre-Heat, a threat to his health—like illness—would trigger a reaction to divert all of his energy to fighting the threat and repairing itself. It was why most Omega's didn't experience Heats if they were sick or starving. Heats were a signifier of health; the longer and more intense the Heat, the healthier the Omega (or, such was the Old Wives Tale). It was dangerous to intentionally poison oneself, of course, but Al had risked it back then and it had worked. He had recovered from the illness and gotten what he wanted, which gave him incentive to try it again. It had worked twice since then with no notable side-effects, so he had no reason not to risk it now. Now more than ever, it was necessary.

                "Alfred," said Thierry seriously, "if you take this potion, it'll make you very, very sick. Omegas... you're meant to have Heats. This potion will prevent your body from doing what it's naturally programmed to do."

                "I know, but it'll be fine. I'll be fine. I've taken it before—"

                "That's another reason why you shouldn't take it again then," Thierry argued. "Alfred, you're poisoning your body to prevent its natural reproductive function. Do it enough times and you won't be able to conceive pups _ever_."

                "I know!" Al snapped impatiently. "And if you've got a better solution right now, I'd love to hear it. But if not, don't you dare patronize me. I know that what I'm doing is damaging," he said stubbornly, "but I _will not_ go into Heat here. _Do you understand_?"

                Sheepishly, Thierry looked from left-to-right and surveyed the encampment of leering soldiers. Both of them knew what the sweet scent of Al's pre-Heat implied, and both of them knew they didn't have much time left to prevent it developing into something much more appetizing—and chaotic. As horrifying as it would be from Al's perspective, it wouldn't be much better for the Southern Army. If Al went into Heat in the open and unguarded, Le Roux's command would crumble against the force of raw arousal and violent competition that would consume his Alphas as they fought for dominance and ownership of the young Omega. Al refused to let that happen, even if he had to poison himself to do it. He refused to be the prize of an Alpha who had ripped apart his comrades like a big snapping, slobbering beast. His determined gaze told Thierry as much.

                The Alpha pursed his lips anxiously, cowed by reality. "I've never brewed anything like this potion before," he confessed. "I'm just an army medic, a surgeon, not an alchemist. If I brew it incorrectly, it could kill you, Alfred."

                "I have faith in you," Al said, squeezing the Alpha's hand. He tried to smile, but it revealed his fear. "Thierry," he begged, "please help me."

                The medic opened his mouth to refuse, but it came out: "Okay."

* * *

**TWELVE HOURS LATER**

Al was leaning back against a tree, looking soft and flushed, fidgeting, and fanning himself despite the night's chill. He looked very uncomfortable, but he smelled wonderful. Ivan was afraid he knew why; he had smelled Al's Heat-scent before. He tried to stay calm for Al's sake. He tried not to be bothered by it, but the truth was he was panicking inside; half-aroused, half-afraid. If Al went into Heat here, then Le Roux's Alphas would—Ivan clenched his jaw; his fists. He tried not to feel angry or aroused, but his body was instinctively reacting to the appetizing change in Al's hormones. The more pronounced his Heat-scent became, the harder it was for the unmated Alpha to concentrate on anything but claiming him and mating him. Over and over and over again, until everyone knew that Al Kirkland belonged to Ivan. Only Ivan. It was a battle of self-control, but one he had to win. Because if Al went into Heat, then Ivan would have to protect him. Somehow, he would have to fight off the other Alphas. Or, maybe he could strike a bargain with Le Roux and have Al taken somewhere safe. Al would have to endure another Heat alone, but it was better than the alternative. At least he would be safe. Besides, the Southern captain needed Al if he was going to use him as leverage against the Westerners. But for that to work, Al only needed to be alive, unspoiled or not. Even if Al _was_ raped countless times, Ivan was fairly certain Matt Kirkland would still want his twin-brother returned to him.

                _What do I do_? Ivan worried, feeling torn between mind-numbing anger, arousal, and panic. _What_ can _I do_?

                It was then he spotted Le Roux's Alpha-pup hurrying over, and he growled. Somewhere in his subconscious, Ivan was grateful for the medic's assistance—his wounds were healing much better, now—but given their situation, he felt defensive of anyone who approached. Ivan's growl was low and antagonistic, but it didn't stop Thierry. Could the medic smell Al's Heat-scent, too? Is that why he was unperturbed by Ivan's warning? Deliberately, he moved in front of Al, only to have the Omega crawl heedlessly around him.

                "It's about time," Al said to Thierry. He sounded annoyed, but Ivan heard fear as well.

                After all, if _he_ —an Alpha—was panicking, then how much more frightened was Al about his upcoming Heat?

                "What is that?" Ivan asked as Thierry handed Al a glass bottle. It contained a mouthful of a clear, scentless liquid. "Al—?"

                Al ignored him. Thierry said:

                "I'm sorry, Alfred. I brewed it three times, just to be safe. I wanted to be certain it was right. I... I think it is."

                " _Alfred_ ," Ivan repeated sternly, "what _is_ that?"

                Finally, Al faced Ivan and smiled. And it was Al's smile, not the smile of an Omega scared witless. There was courage in it, despite everything; the same unrefined courage that was reflected in his strikingly blue eyes, made bluer by his flushed cheeks. _Gods_ , Ivan thought, momentarily stunned, _is there anyone more beautiful in the whole world_? Deliberately, Al planted both of his hands on the Alpha's shoulders and applied enough pressure to still his trembling.

                "This is going to be a little scary, and probably get really gross," he admitted, "but I don't want you to worry, sweetheart. Because I'm going to be okay, I promise."

                Before Ivan could argue or interrogate Al, the Omega kissed him on the lips.

                Then he swallowed the potion.

* * *

**LATER**

Ivan looked on in horror as Al lurched forward and vomited for the umpteenth time. His whole body convulsed as he gagged and gasped and coughed, covered in cold sweat. He looked like death warmed-over. He was hollow-eyed and pale. Tears of fatigue and pain and effort rolled freely down his sallow cheeks. He breathed deeply, his weight braced on trembling hands-and-knees as he vomited bile and acidic fluid. He had purged what little food they had been given to eat hours ago. Ivan did everything he could to try and ease Al's pain. He braced the Omega's weight, and held back his sweaty hair, and rubbed his back, but it was difficult to play caretaker with his hands and legs bound.

                "Oh, what have you done to yourself, little one?" he asked. He wasn't expecting an answer; Al merely croaked dryly, which made the Alpha feel worse. At that moment, he wished that he had been taken ill instead, if only to spare Al the horrible pain. And Ivan the fear.

                The truth was, Al looked so weak—he _was_ so weak—that a recovery didn't seem possible. Shaking, vomiting, dehydrated, sobbing, and convulsing; the strength sucked from his bones. Al Kirkland looked like he was going to die.

                Ivan knew _why_ Al had done it, of course. As soon as ten minutes after taking the potion, his Heat-scent had begun to fade as the symptoms of poisoning took over. What Ivan didn't know was _what_ Al had done. The fact that he had voluntarily ingested poison worried Ivan, and no amount of hope from self-conscious Thierry could convince the Alpha that his intended Omega-mate wasn't going to die. If he did, Ivan would kill Thierry. He would rip the Southern soldier apart with his bare hands. Then he would kill himself, taking as many Southerners with him as possible.

                The only good thing about Al's state was that Le Roux's Alphas were staying as far away from the sick Omega as they could get.

                " _What in hell_ is _that_? _It's disgusting_!"

                " _Here_ , _don't let him touch you_!

                " _Is it the flu_? _Is it the pox_? _Is it the plague_?"

                " _Is it contagious_?" Le Roux asked his Alpha-pup, betraying the slightest hint of fear.

                " _No_ ," Thierry answered. " _It's definitely not contagious_ , _Papa—I mean_ , _sir_. _Captain. I_ , _uh_... _suspect that it won't last for more than a couple days_."

                " _It had better not_ ," Le Roux warned, as if Al's illness was Thierry's fault (which—technically—it was). " _I want that pup on his feet in time to march on the Black Forest Fort. Our whole plan of attack depends on him being alive. Is that understood_?" he asked sternly. His steely gaze relayed the order: _Fix him_!

                " _Yes_ , _sir._ "

                Ivan growled deeply at the look of disdain Le Roux cast Al, his lip curled back to reveal his teeth in revulsion. He knew it was a good thing that the Southerners didn't find Al attractive right then, but Ivan still felt insulted on the Omega's behalf. When Al suddenly collapsed in Ivan's looped arms, exhausted, the Alpha made an intentional show of holding him and stroking him and kissing his clammy, sweaty skin to prove that Al's state didn't bother him. To shield Al from ridicule. To lend Al comfort, as only an Alpha-mate can. And to feel Al's heart beating in his chest to prove he was still alive, if only just.

                _Alfred Kirkland_ , _what in hell did you do to yourself_? he thought in agony.

                "Don't worry," Al croaked weakly, drawing Ivan's attention. He looked so faint; he could barely keep his eyes open. Gingerly, he reached up and touched Ivan's cheek. "It's going to be okay, sweet—"

                Before he could finish, Al lurched forward and—

* * *

**BLACK FOREST FORT**

**WESTERN EMPIRE**

—vomited.

                Matt wiped his mouth and stared incredulously down into the sullied washbasin. He didn't feel sick. And by some sheer miracle he hadn't eaten anything questionable yet (he lived in a fort, after all). The nausea had surfaced so fast he had barely had time to react to it, and then it was gone just as suddenly. But he did feel something... internal. It wasn't physical, though. It was intuitive, something he couldn't put into words. Arthur would have called it _Omega's intuition_. It's how he described everything that Alpha's couldn't understand. And this feeling was certainly something no Alpha would ever understand. Instinctively, Matt had pressed a hand to his lower abdomen before he even realized it. And he froze.

                Then he counted.

                He counted the days of the month backwards since his last Heat, and he realized:

 _I'm late. I should've gone into Heat two days ago_ , _but I didn't._

Matt hadn't ever missed a Heat since he had started having them two years ago. The absence of it now could only mean one thing, that he was—

                The bedchamber door swung open and Gil strode loudly in, his boots stomp, stomp, stomping over the floor. "Hey, _schatz_ ," he said, distracted by a task. But when Matt failed to reply or even move, Gil reconsidered his stunned Omega-mate. "Matt," he asked, cocking his head, "you okay?"

                "Mm hmm," Matt murmured, trying to look composed. He pursed his lips, but the moment he looked up and saw his Alpha-mate's puzzled face, he broke into a giddy smile of disbelief. "Yes," he said, feeling dazed. "Yes, I'm fine. I'm perfectly fine, Gil. I'm just... fine." He pressed his left hand to his mouth to quell a high-pitched hiccup of nervous laughter and apprehension and fear; his right hand planted firmly on his abdomen.

                Gil offered a bemused half-grin as he regarded his Omega-mate's curious behaviour. "Uh, okay then," he said skeptically, feeling as though he had missed something. "I just came back to get that report I finished last night. Have you seen it—Oh, thanks," he nodded, taking the book Matt handed him. Matt's hand was trembling. Gil started to turn away, but he paused again, unable to shake the feeling that something was amiss.

                "Are you sure nothing's wrong, _schatz_?"

                Matt swallowed. _Wrong_ —?

                He was the fifteen-year-old Omega survivor of a natural disaster, now trapped in a military fort in the middle of a war-zone; pair-bonded to an Alpha facing a Court Martial (if the enemy didn't kill him first); wanted dead by the enemy for a blood-crime he didn't even commit; and who had just realized that he was—

                His dazed, wide-eyed gaze landed on the Alpha, violet met by wine-red, and an unexpected wave of affection overwhelmed him. He looked at the big, strong, handsome Western Captain, who was everything he could have ever hoped for in an Alpha-mate and a sire for his pups, and everything else suddenly faded away as his eyes flooded with tears. Impulsively, he wanted to leap joyfully into Gil's warm, protective arms and hug him and kiss him.

                But he didn't.

                Instead, he took a deep, calming breath and blinked the tears from his eyes. He smiled, walked to his Alpha-mate's side, and kissed his cheek.

                "No, darling," he said. "Nothing's wrong."

* * *

Gil was still puzzled by Matt's peculiar behaviour as he entered the armoury, but he sharpened the moment he spotted Ludwig, who was taking inventory. The lieutenant stilled for a moment, then stiffly inclined his head to acknowledge Gil's higher status. Gil gave him a wordless _at-ease_ command and stepped awkwardly into the circular chamber. The brothers hadn't interacted much lately, except to relay orders and give reports. They had both been too busy to act like brothers, and neither one had yet acknowledged the tragic circumstances of Matt's last Heat, because neither of them knew what he should say. _What do you say to your little brother who saw and smelled your Omega-mate naked and in Heat_? _Your little brother who rescued your Omega-mate from rape_ , _because you weren't there to protect him_? _Because you're a fucking failure as an Alpha-mate_. _And a fucking coward because you can't admit that you made a mistake_. Gil simply decided to go with:

                "Thanks."

                Ludwig's face revealed his understanding, but he still asked: "For what?" Gil wished he hadn't. He wished his brother would just accept his unvoiced apology and forgive him for his mistake so they could put it behind them and move on, but the look on Ludwig's stony face told Gil he wasn't going to make this easy. When Gil failed to explain his ambiguous gratitude, Ludwig sighed. "You made a mistake, Gil."

                "I know," Gil agreed. "I should've been there with him—"

                "You made a mistake bringing Matthew here," Ludwig cut in.

                Gil stared at him, taken aback. His brother's sky-blue eyes were cold. He wanted to argue, but how could he? Ludwig's proceeding words echoed Gil's greatest fears:

                "You can't be the Fort Commander _and_ an Alpha-mate," he said sternly. "There's a reason it's against the law and it has nothing to do with cruelty. What's cruel is forcing your Omega-mate to live in a fort in the middle of a war-zone. He's too young, too soft. He doesn't belong in here, Gil, and frankly I'm starting to wonder if you do either. You can't just neglect the fort to be an Alpha-mate, and you can't neglect your Omega-mate to be the Fort Commander. It doesn't work. Look at you," Ludwig criticized. "You're not sleeping; you're barely eating; you're short-tempered and unfocused; you're worried about things you shouldn't be, like your Omega-mate's brother, who's dead for all we know, instead of being worried about the immediate danger we're facing. You're too weighted down, Gil, and it's starting to break you. That's not what the fort needs from its commander right now. The Alphas need your strength. They need you to lead them, to inspire them, because right now they're all fucking terrified. Their courage is hanging in shreds. The last thing they need is a commander who looks scared—"

                " _I am scared_!" Gil yelled, shocking them both. His voice echoed in the stone chamber.

                "I'm scared because I don't know what the fuck to do! Is that what you want me to say, Ludwig? That I don't know what I'm doing? Fine! I'll say it: I'm fucking terrified!

                "It kills me to know that people I care about are getting hurt because of me," he admitted. "It fucking kills me to know that if you hadn't been there to save Matt, then he would've been... he would've..." Gil's lip twitched in anger as he tried to speak the words. "He might have someone else's... _pups_ ," he spat. "I know I keep making mistakes, Lud. I know I'm letting people down. Like Grey." He paused; swallowed a lump of grief. "I shouldn't have sent him out on that scouting-mission; I shouldn't have brought him here at all. But I did, and now he's dead. I brought them all here," he said, implying his Alphas. "I brought them here to fucking die. How many more of them are going to die because of me? Le Roux is coming for us, and when he does it won't be merciful. What if next time it's you, Lud? Or Matt? You're right, okay? I shouldn't have brought Matt here, but I did. I did, and I don't regret it because... because I'm fucking in love with him," he confessed. "If anything were to happen to him, I'd lose my fucking mind.

                "I lost Grey because I chose Matt," he said, looking ashen and torn. "Then Matt was attacked because I chose the fort. No matter what I do, someone gets hurt. I'm destroying everything, Lud. I'm tearing this fort apart brick by fucking brick and I don't know how to fix it short of abandoning it. But if I do that then Le Roux wins. If I do that then I'm not the Alpha Vater raised. It would be like throwing away everything he died for. Everything I've ever believed in. And I hate myself for wanting that, for wanting to run away, but— _gods_!—sometimes that's all I can think about. I just want to take Matt and get the fuck out of here, go somewhere else and start over. But I can't. No matter where in the Empire I go, I'll be a wanted Alpha. Wanted for mating Matt in the first place. I've dug myself a hole and I've dragged you and Matt and everyone else down with me, because I'm too weak to face the consequences of my actions.

                "I can't do it! I'm too fucking weak!" he snarled, grabbing angrily at his hair. "And everyone fucking knows it! You said it yourself, Lud, the Alphas know it! They know I can't protect them! Matt knows I can't protect him! Gods, what if I have pups someday _and I can't protect them_ —"

                Ludwig's steely fist flew out and punched Gil in the face. His silver-white head whipped to the side on impact and he stumbled sideways, dazed.

                He was wide-eyed and gasping. He hadn't realized he was gasping.

                He said: "Thanks."

                Ludwig nodded. "Deep breath," he ordered, as if he was coaching a new recruit. "You need to calm down, Gil. You can't panic."

                Gil blinked dumbly for a moment, then nodded. "I... I know."

                "You need to sleep, brother," Ludwig advised. "You're not thinking logically. You're letting passion rule your decisions. You're worrying about pups you don't even have," he added, pushing his point. "Go lie down for a bit," he ordered, patting Gil's shoulder.

                Gil shrugged him off. "I can't," he said, shaking his head. "I've got too much to do."

                "You're no good to anyone broken, Gil," Ludwig argued. "And you're sure as hell in no fit condition to give a motivational speech.

                "You need to stop fixating on everything that could go wrong and accept that you can't protect everyone," he said, more gently. "You can't save everyone, especially not like this. We've got a war with the Southerners coming to a breaking-point on our doorstep. We need our commander, the Alpha we trust. The Alpha we all swore loyalty to. Not whatever the fuck it was I just witnessed. If it helps," he suggested, "Matthew needs that commander, too. Because if Le Roux gets in, then guess who he's going after first?"

                Gil clenched his jaw and nodded resolutely.               

                "We all need you to be you, Gil, not this frightened ghost you've become. Right?" Ludwig offered his hand.

                Gil clasped it. "Right," he agreed.

                "Thanks."

                Before Ludwig could reply, the armoury doors swung open with a heavy bang, revealing a panting, red-faced Alpha, who had been posted to sentry duty.

                " _Captain_!" he gasped, buckled-over.

                The Beilschmidt brothers both tensed in alert. There was fear apparent on the sentry's face.

                "Yes?" said Gil, sounding a lot more commanding than he felt. Sounding as if he hadn't just confessed all of his deepest, darkest fears and insecurities to his younger brother, rambling like a madman until Ludwig had needed to physically silence him. _At least_ , he thought in solace, _things can't possibly get any worse right now_. He cleared his throat, injecting as much confidence into his tone as he could, and demanded: "What is it?"

                The sentry straightened and pointed over-the-shoulder to the front gates. Regretfully, he said:

                "It's the Black Guards, sir. The Black Guards from the Great House. They've been sent here by the Kaiser, Captain Beilschmidt. Sent to arrest you for treason."


	21. Lost Boys – Chapter Twelve

**BLACK FOREST FORT**

**WESTERN EMPIRE**

I'm sorry, Captain," said Reinbeck, a member of the Black Guard—the Kaiser's private police. "I'm sorry we have to meet under these circumstances."

                His partner, Lutz, nodded in somber agreement.

                "It's been a long time," said Gil to his former schoolmates. He hadn't seen them since accepting his posting at the fort. "How's your Omega-mate?" he asked Lutz.

                "Very well, thank-you. He's expecting our third pup," Lutz replied, unable to suppress a smile. "We're hoping for an Alpha this time."

                "Good luck," Gil said, teasing; though his tone revealed his unease. An uncomfortable silence stretched for a minute, the Guards exchanging a weary look with Ludwig, then Gil sighed. "Is there any point in me trying to explain or defend myself?" he asked ruefully.

                "Is the accusation untrue?" asked Reinbeck.

                "No, it's true."

                "Did you knowingly and deliberately take an Omega-mate, forsaking your sworn oath? Did you illegally bring him here to the Black Forest Fort? Is he really a Southerner?"

                "Yes, yes, and"—Gil bobbed his head, then said—"he's an Islander, actually. I did it to protect him from the Southern Army."

                "Did you mate him?" Reinbeck asked bluntly.

                "Yes."

                "Then I'm sorry, Captain Beilschmidt, but the law is the law."

                "Please don't resist, Gil," Lutz added, stepping forward in sync with Reinbeck. "Captain Gilbert Beilschmidt, Commander of the Black Forest Fort of the Western Empire, you are hereby under arrest."

* * *

KNOCK. KNOCK. "Matthew Beilschmidt?"

                Matt froze. He had heard the gates open and close, admitting the two capital representatives; he had heard a hushed murmur breeze through the courtyard, whispering " _Black Guards_ ". Gil had never explained to him what the purpose of the Black Guard was, but Matt could guess based on the secrecy of their entry that they were a prestigious order. How they had managed to sneak past the Southern Army to reach the fort spoke volumes for their competence. Of course, the fact that there was only two of them contributed to their stealth. Matt spied them from the bedchamber window. Both Alphas wore long black traveling cloaks over form-fitting black clothes, hoods pulled up, which made them look like duel hangmen. It was a disconcerting impression. He tried to focus on their conversation, but the fort was suddenly a hive of soft-spoken whispers and activity; the wind blew fiercely, whipping all the flags; and thunder rumbled overhead. He saw the Black Guards escort Gil into the armoury, then re-appear without him. A sentry was posted, and the chamber was locked. Matt waited, counted. Then he heard the distinctive sound of leather soles on stone as the mysterious Black Guards climbed the stairs of the keep.

                They knocked again. "Matthew Beilschmidt," one said, louder.

                Matt briefly considered barricading the door closed, but knew it was useless to resist. Gil hadn't, after all. Gil had known this day was coming for a long time. And even if he did refuse to come out, the Alphas would simply break in. So, taking a deep breath, he unbolted the door.

                The first thing the Guard said to him was:

                " _Whoa_."

                A young Alpha—Gil's age—looked at Matt in slack-jawed surprise before his partner cleared his throat in an obvious way. "Oh, uh... excuse me," he said, bowing his head politely as he stepped into the bedchamber. A second Guard walked in behind him, a couple years older than the first, followed by Ludwig and Wolfe. Ludwig looked pale; Wolfe looked infuriatingly smug.

                "Can I get you something to drink?" Matt offered. He was so nervous, he didn't know where to put his hands; he clasped them in front of himself like a beggar. His heart was pounding, and he suddenly felt embarrassed about the unordered state of Gil's bedchamber.

                "No, thank-you," said the older Guard, the taller one.

                Wolfe said: "I'd like a drink. A hops beer if he's got it, or spiced wine."

                Matt ignored him.

                "I'm Lutz, this is Reinbeck," said Lutz. He pointed to the shorter, stalker Black Guard, who smiled bashfully. "I presume you know why we're here?" Lutz asked hopefully. Matt nodded meekly. "I'm afraid Captain Beilschmidt has been placed under arrest. Reinbeck and I are here to escort him back to the Great House to stand trial; we'll leave tomorrow at twilight. In the meantime, Lieutenant Beilschmidt"—he indicated Ludwig—"will serve the fort as Acting-Commander, and you... well, as of this moment your pair-bonded union with Captain Gilbert Beilschmidt has been officially dissolved. I'm sorry," he added, noticing Matt's disbelief. "The Great House doesn't recognize your union as being legal, and therefore doesn't acknowledge you as a citizen of the Western Empire."

                Matt tensed and wrapped his arms protectively around his middle. "What does that mean?" he asked softly.

                "It means this fort no longer owes any loyalty to you by mating-law, and Reinbeck and I are legally obliged to escort you out."

                "Out—?"

                "Out of the Western Empire," Lutz clarified. "Protocol dictates that we escort you to the closest border and leave you there. Under normal circumstances, we would send a message ahead to your closest relatives to collect you there, however, circumstances being what they are, I'm afraid we can't afford to do that. But we _do_ have to ask you to leave the fort."

                A nervous, humourless chuckle escaped Matt. "Are you serious? You're really going to kick me out? Here? _Now_?" he emphasized. He cast a worried look at Ludwig.

                "The law clearly states," said Lutz, stepping forward, "that unmated foreign Omegas—"

                "But I'm not unmated! I'm Gil's—"

                "No," Wolfe interrupted snidely, "you're not. Not anymore. Now you're just the lost little bitch you were two months ago."

                "Second-Lieutenant," Ludwig growled in reprimand, "I'll ask you to mind your tongue."  To the Black Guard, he said: "I realize that Gilbert is in the wrong here, but please be reasonable. Matthew wouldn't last a day outside the fort and you know it. The Southerners will kill him. If you force him out, then you condemn him to death. He's not the one to blame. He was a lost foreigner who didn't know our laws when he mated with Gilbert," he lied. "He's a victim of circumstance." That said, Ludwig stalked to Matt's side in support. "I'll take responsibility for him—"

                "This is ridiculous," Wolfe argued. "The Omega is an illegal immigrant here. I don't care how sweet or pretty or innocent anyone thinks he is, the law is the law. If we make an exception for him, then the code we've all sworn to uphold is worthless. These are desperate times; we're at war. We can't afford such a distraction. How do you expect the Alphas to defend the fort if he"—he jerked his head at Matt—"goes into Heat again? Omegas are not permitted to live here for a reason. And foreigners are not entitled to our protection. Why should we risk our lives for him? What purpose would it serve? We need to protect ourselves right now, and this Islander _bitch_ ," he spat cruelly, "is _not_ one of us!"

                " _I'm_ not," Matt snapped sharply in reply, "but my pup _is_."

                The room fell silent as everyone processed the Omega's outburst. He felt everyone's eyes slide from his face to his abdomen and back in shock.

                "Matt..." Ludwig gaped. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish, speechless.

                "He's lying!" Wolfe snarled. "He's not pregnant, it's just a trick. An Omega trick."

                Matt narrowed his eyes, but he didn't bark back. Instead, he looked determinedly at Lutz and Reinbeck and opened his legs invitingly. "Go ahead," he said, steeling his nerves; holding his abdomen protectively. "I'm not a liar."

                Lutz hesitated, then knelt down. "Excuse me," he mumbled, avoiding eye-contact with the Omega-father-to-be. He took a few deep whiffs of Matt's scent, then stood. "Yes," he confirmed. "It's faint, but true."

                Ludwig made an involuntary noise in his throat, halfway between a croak and a groan, but nobody reacted to it.

                "Well..." Lutz resumed after a tense minute, seemingly at a loss, "this changes things somewhat..."

                When nobody else spoke, Matt did.

                "I'm pregnant with Captain Gilbert Beilschmidt's pup," he said, in case there was any lingering doubt. "My pup will be born a citizen of the Western Empire by generations of his Alpha-father's bloodline. If you cast us out," he spoke purposely in plural, "then you're condemning one of your own—an unborn pup—to death. Just what does your law say about _that_? Are you still going to make me leave?"

                Reinbeck looked away sheepishly, so it was Lutz whom Matt focused on. The Black Guard's pale eyes looked suddenly soft.

                "No," he said quietly, "of course not. Of course you can stay."

                " _What_? But the law—"

                Lutz pierced Wolfe with a cutting glare. "By law, Beilschmidt's pup is a citizen of the Western Empire and the Omega-parent is therefore entitled to the fort's protection. But even if he wasn't, I will _not_ cast out a pregnant Omega. The crimes of the parents do not condemn a pup to death. Not in the West. Matthew," he said more kindly, "I'm afraid you can't stay at the fort forever, but as long as you're the Omega-parent of a Westerner, we'll take care of you. Both of you." He bowed, respecting the re-establishment of Matt's high position, then jabbed his elbow into Reinbeck's ribs. Reinbeck bowed, too.

                Matt sighed in relief. "Thank-you."

                Lutz and Reinbeck nodded politely to Matt, then left. (Reinbeck's voice echoed in the corridor: "Law or not, I get why Gil claimed him. Did you see his face? Those hips? _Wow_! I'd have mated him, too!") Wolfe followed them out, looking volatile and growling like a sore-loser. Matt felt a pinch of trepidation as he watched him leave, knowing that it wouldn't be his last encounter with the antagonistic Alpha. As Ludwig was leaving, still looking dazed, Matt grabbed his forearm.

                "Ludwig, please don't tell Gil," he begged, holding a hand to his flat abdomen. "I want to tell him... when it's right."

                He thought Ludwig would argue, but the Alpha nodded in agreement. "Okay," he said simply, looking down at his young brother-by-mating-law. He smiled wanly, blue eyes flicking to Matt's midsection and back. "Take care of yourself and that pup," he advised kindly, though his voice harboured worry, "because this isn't over. It's only going to get worse, and if Gil..." Ludwig paused; pursed his lips. "If Gil's not here I promise I'll protect you as best as I can, but you _have_ to take care of that pup," he repeated in earnest.

                Matt felt tears spring to his eyes. "Ludwig... brother, what's going to happen?"

                Ludwig didn't correct the title; he just shook his head. "I don't know." Tentatively—gently, as if he was afraid of breaking the Omega—he laid a companionable hand on Matt's shoulder. "I wish I did, but I don't. Just promise me you'll stay strong and stay safe, Matthew. Brother," he added proudly.

                Matt took a deep breath and nodded. "I will."

* * *

Gil was pacing back-and-forth when the armoury door opened and Ludwig slipped inside. He stopped abruptly, and said: "Matt—?"

                "They're going to let him stay," Ludwig reported, though he wore an odd expression. It was good news, but the lieutenant's brow was creased and his sky-blue eyes looked pale and distant. He looked tired.

                Gil exhaled. "Oh, thank the gods." He hung his head; in relief or in thanks to a higher-power, he didn't know. His worries began to lessen, but he tensed again when he saw Ludwig's face. "What?" he added after a minute. Ludwig wasn't speaking, just staring at Gil as if seeing his brother anew; as if trying to memorize him, or appraise him. "Don't worry about me, Lud," he misinterpreted. He punched Ludwig's shoulder in a fraternal way. "I'm going to be fine, you'll see. You need to focus on the fort now, _Acting-Commander_ ," he said, smiling. "No distractions, remember?" he added.

                Ludwig's return smile was wry. Then he did something Gil wasn't expecting. Without warning, Ludwig threw his arms around Gil and hugged him tightly, like he hadn't hugged him since they were pups; like he wouldn't ever see him again. Gil froze, then slowly relaxed. He patted his brother's back.

                "Hey, it's going to be okay, Lud. It's not—"

                "You can't die, Gil," Ludwig interrupted. It sounded like an order. "You _can't_."

                Then, just as sudden, he let go and stepped back as if it hadn't happened. Ludwig nodded to Gil and bowed his head, as if Gil was still the captain. Gil hesitated, then nodded in acknowledgement. Ludwig left, and Gil resumed his restless pacing, somehow more anxious now than before Ludwig's visit. He wondered—worried—about everything that had happened, and about everything that was likely to happen, and agonized over how to fix it. How in the world was he going to avoid a death sentence? He had to think. There had to be something he could do—bribery; insanity; could he beg? There had to be a way out of this that wouldn't leave Matt a widow after only two months of being pair-bonded. Even if Gil was dishonourably discharged from service, it would be worth it. He didn't care about himself or his career anymore, he only wanted to keep Matt safe. Matt was the thing that mattered most to him now. He only wished it hadn't taken him so long to realize it.

                _Why couldn't I have figured it out two months ago_? _I could've resigned from service and left the fort_ _and no one would've been any the wiser. It would've been so much easier. We could've been together. But now_ —?

                Gil could only hope and pray that the Black Guards would see Matt safely back to the Isles once he was dead.

                Suddenly, the bell-tower started chiming, loud and long in warning. Once, twice, trice.

                Someone—or an army of someones—was at the gates.

* * *

The Black Forest Fort was the biggest, boldest, bleakest-looking castle Al had ever seen. (It was the _only_ castle he had ever seen.) He stared straight up at the tall stonewalls and the Alphas who perched like gargoyles on the battlements. It had started to rain, soaking the shoulders of their coarse black-and-white tunics and clanging on metal and leather armour. The sentries held long spears that jut menacingly into the iron-grey sky. They looked mean, unforthcoming. Le Roux stood beside Al, holding his bicep, as if he thought Al would try to run.

                He wouldn't run. Not without Ivan.

                "Remember our deal, Alfred," he said, using Al's given-name with a casualness that made the Omega's skin crawl.

                Al sneered, but didn't deign Le Roux a glance. He kept his eyes fixed on the fort, thinking: _Mattie is in there somewhere. A prisoner._ _Is what Le Roux said true_? _Has Mattie really been mated by a Westerner_? He didn't want to believe it until someone inside of the fort confirmed it. He sure as hell didn't trust Le Roux. Looking up at the sentries, Al felt a surge of anger and revulsion toward them. The thought of his brother being used like some Omega-whore was enough to twist his stomach. _Don't worry_ , _Mattie. I'm here. I'm going to find you. I'm going to save you_ — _and_ _Ivan—and we're going to go home_. Until then, he had no choice but to play along with Le Roux's plan.

                Finally, a towering Alpha approached the edge of the battlements, looking down on the party of Southerners. He had white-blonde hair that tugged in the breeze despites his best efforts to order it. In a deep, loud voice, he said:

                " _Captain Le Roux_ , _what business do you have here_?"

                He spoke in German. Le Roux took the opportunity to ignore the question, and asked in French:

                " _You are not the Captain. Where is Beilschmidt_? _It's he I've come to bargain with_ , _not some halfwit second-in-command. Fetch me the Fort Commander_."

                "I am Ludwig Beilschmidt, Acting-Commander of this fort," said the Westerner in thickly accented English. (Al supposed he didn't speak French.) "Tell me your business here, Le Roux— _quickly_."

                "I want to speak to Captain Beilschmidt," Le Roux growled unhappily. "Fetch him here. Tell him that I have a proposition for him that involves the brother of his Omega-mate."

                On cue, Le Roux tugged Al forward for all of the Westerners to see. But if they recognized his looks or scent as being related to Matt, they didn't show it.

                Ludwig eyed Le Roux wry, then said: "No."

                " _No_ —?"

                "No," he repeated definitely.

                Le Roux bared his canines in frustration. He gripped Al with bruising firmness. "Perhaps you misheard me, _Acting-Commander_. This is Alfred Bonnefoi, brother of—"

                "Yes, I heard you," Ludwig interrupted. "But I don't see why that should matter to me."

                "He's your brother's brother-by-mating-law," Le Roux snapped bluntly.

                Ludwig nodded. "Yes, but he's nothing to me. The law binds me to Matthew, not this Alfred."

                "I'll kill him," Le Roux threatened, jostling Al. "I'll cut his throat right here."

                "Go ahead."

                "I'm not bluffing." Le Roux drew a knife and pressed it to Al's throat. Al felt the cold kiss of steel.

                Ludwig shrugged, and repeated: "Go ahead. No one will stop you."

                " _Argh_ —! _Where is Beilschmidt_?" the Southerner yelled. " _I want him to come here and see this_!" Forcefully, he shook Al. A bead of blood rolled down Al's neck.

                "I'm afraid the captain is unavailable," said Ludwig blithely. "But it doesn't matter, because I'm telling you as the Acting-Commander that the Black Forest Fort does not bargain with liars. This parley is over now," he declared, signaling to his Alphas. Several archers readied to fire.

                "Then bring me Matthew!" Le Roux ordered. "Let Beilschmidt's precious Omega-mate look upon the face of his helpless brother!"

                "Absolutely not," said Ludwig dryly. "Now leave our territory, or we'll stick you full of arrows. I will not say it again."

                 Le Roux's pale, calculating eyes swivelled between the bowmen before locking on Ludwig. "You're going to regret this," he threatened.

                The Westerner grunted. "I doubt it," he said, then stalked away.

* * *

Back at the encampment, Le Roux seethed in anger. His Alphas gave him a wide berth as he marched to the captain's tent. Al struggled to keep pace as he was dragged along. He still felt weak and woozy, and though he was famished he couldn't smell food without feeling nauseous. It was a slow recovery. The lingering dregs of illness clung to him in his bones and sapped his strength. He had pretended that it was all normal for Ivan's benefit, but the truth was that the Heat-inhibiting poison had never left him feeling so depleted before. He thought of Thierry's warning, that the poison became more damaging with every dose, and tried to quell the fear and paranoia that clutched him. He didn't feel like himself. Instinctively he knew that something was wrong, but he couldn't place it, and he couldn't admit it for fear of Ivan's reaction. Instead, he tried to ignore it. Yet even as he ruminated over the Westerner's words, his head felt foggy.

                _Le Roux implied that Mattie is Ludwig's brother-by-mating-law. And Ludwig called Mattie by his given-name. Le Roux called him Beilschmidt's_ precious Omega-mate, _and Ludwig didn't deny it. Why would he_ , _unless it's true_?

                Despite Le Roux's facts, a part of Al had always doubted the Southerner's word. Now, it was impossible to.

                _It's true_. _Mattie really is in there. He really has been taken as a Western Alpha's Omega-mate._

                "So," he said cheekily to Le Roux, trying to focus on other things, "the plan kind of backfired, didn't it?" He couldn't help grinning at the Southerner's loss. It felt good, even if Al had nothing to do with it. Either the Westerners really were as cold and ruthless as Ivan described, or they didn't trust Le Roux either. "I guess I'm not as valuable as you'd hoped. Such a pity."

                Le Roux's steely gaze seized Al and for a moment Al thought the Alpha would strike him. A moment later, Al wished that he had. Instead, the spiteful captain shoved him into a gaggle of nearby soldiers. "Rest assured, I won't be making that mistake again. I know exactly what your _value_ is, Alfred Bonnefoi," he spat maliciously. To the Alphas, he said: "Officers, report to my tent at once. The rest of you—he's yours. Have fun."

                Al barely had time to curse before several hands were pulling and pushing and grabbing and groping him. He squirmed in protest as they shoved him back-and-forth, pawing at his clothes. He spit on one Alpha who ducked in for a sloppy kiss and got growled at and laughed at and poked and pinched in jest. He kept his lips pursed tightly and his jaw clenched so as not to make a sound, but he felt a whine creeping up his throat. He didn't want to give the bullying Alphas the satisfaction of his cries, and he especially didn't want Ivan to know what was happening, but it was easier said than done when they were touching him with such disrespect. Al had always considered himself desensitized to Alphas vulgarity, but he had never been treated like this before. The things these Alphas howled at him weren't in jest, but true; they weren't teasing, but threatening him. It didn't matter that he didn't understand their words, because he recognized the look in their eyes—not just lust, but greed. _Mine. Mine. Mine_ , said their eyes. And it scared him. When someone got overexcited and shoved Al too hard, he fell to his knees with a painful yelp. Then the soldiers fell upon him, forcing him onto his back.

                "S-stop— _cough cough_ —g-get off of me, I can't— _cough cough_ —I can't—" _cough cough cough cough_

                _I can't breathe_.

                Al gasped as the soldiers' heavy, humid bodies pressed down on him. A wave of dizziness overwhelmed him; he tasted blood.

                " _What are you doing_? _Get off_! _Get off of him_!"

                Al nearly cried in relief when Thierry shooed the soldiers away and pulled him into a sitting position, letting him cough and cough and cough, finally coughing-up bloody phlegm. On his hands-and-knees, he gasped and swayed.

                " _What is wrong with you all_?" Thierry snapped. He was the smallest Alpha present—he probably weighed a fraction of the others—but they yielded to his medical expertise when he said: " _Can't you see that the Omega is sick_? _How do you know it's not contagious_?"

                At that the soldiers scattered, pushing and shoving each other in their haste to reach the river to wash off Al's contagion. Al would have laughed if he had the breath for it.

                "Thanks," he said weakly, taking Thierry's hand.

                "You're not drinking the tea that I brewed you," Thierry reprimanded him. "I told you to drink it. It'll soothe the effects of the poison."

                "It tastes awful," Al complained. _It's not worth it_. He may not have known the extents of his sickness, but he did know that tea wasn't going to cure it. He said: "I think it would make me nauseous even if I wasn't ill. Don't worry, the effects will wear off in a few hours—"

                "Alfred," said the Alpha sternly, "you don't have a few hours. You need to recover as quickly as possible if you intend to escape."

                Al blinked at him in surprise. "I, uh... I'm not going to..."

                Thierry cocked his head. "I'm not stupid, Alfred. And I know you're not either. You know my Alpha-father is lying to you. He has no intention of letting you and your brother live."

                Al's shoulders sagged. He had suspected as much from Le Roux, but somehow Thierry's confirmation made it real. "I know," he admitted, thinking of the Southern captain's failed plan. _He would've used me to find Mattie_ , _then he would've pretended to let us go and later called our deaths a misfire or accident once he'd gotten what he wanted from us._ Fortunately, Acting-Commander Beilschmidt had unknowingly crushed that plan when he had denied any interest in Al. _Maybe Mattie is better off inside the fort_ , he considered now. _At least they aren't planning to kill him—rape him_ , _breed him_ , _torment him—but at least he's alive._

                Al swallowed a mouthful of ripe bile that had nothing to do with his sickness.

                "Will you help us escape?" he asked Thierry hopefully.

                Thierry hesitated. "I won't try to stop you," he said instead.

                Al nodded. It was enough.

                Thierry walked Al back to Ivan's prison. The Alpha had been tethered like a rapid dog to a tree with soldiers posted to either side, as if Le Roux expected trouble from the injured Easterner, but the guards, themselves, looked bored. One was half-asleep on his feet, and the other was lazily inspecting the cleanliness of his fingernails. Neither of them seemed interested in Al or Ivan, whose tense shoulders relaxed at the Omega's approach. He looked relieved to see Al whole and physically unharmed by the Southerners or Westerners, but also confused by the Omega's return.

                "That was quick," he said suspiciously, looping his arms over Al's head to hold him. "Where is your brother?"

                Al settled down onto Ivan's lap and rested his head on the Alpha's shoulder. "Inside the fort. Apparently the Westerners aren't as gullible as Le Roux hoped," he reported.

                "Le Roux didn't hurt you, did he, little one?"

                "No," Al replied, careful to keep his voice neutral. In reassurance, he leant up and pecked Ivan's lips. "I guess I'm still worth more alive than dead. But I don't think Le Roux is done yet. He wants that fort, that much is obvious. I don't think he's left anything to chance. He wouldn't have marched his whole company all the way out here if he didn't have a Plan B. He must've schemed an alternative attack in the event the Fort Commander refused to yield."

                "He has," said Ivan. "I overheard his officers talking earlier. He's planning a siege. I think it's already begun."

                Al considered the castle's high stonewalls; the sentries, the archers; the pale-haired Acting-Commander, who looked as strong and unyielding as the fort itself. Al didn't know much about warfare, and what he did know was field battles. When Islanders fought formally, each opposing force met at a neutral location. It was open and honest. They showed their faces to each other, they didn't hide behind walls. And they attacked with the intention of accepting the outcome, no matter the cost. The stronger force won and that was it. Al didn't know anything about Mainland battles or siege warfare. He didn't know how long a fortress like the Black Forest Fort could survive without reinforcements or supplies. Ivan shrugged when Al asked him.

                "It depends. A fort like this should be able to sustain itself for months, maybe a year if she's well-supplied," he guessed. "But something tells me that's not the case here. If it were, the Southerners wouldn't have been able to get so close in the first place. There should be scouts and sentries posted throughout the forest in the watchtowers," he explained. Al nodded. He remembered how paranoid Ivan had been while traveling through the forest, so afraid of attracting the Western Army's attention. "I doubt the Black Forest Fort has more than a couple months at most," Ivan said, sounding solemn about it.

                Al knew how much Ivan disliked the Western Empire, but he supposed the longer the Black Forest Fort held, the longer he and Ivan had to live. Ironically, their best chance of survival now depended on preserving the army that Ivan had once sworn an oath to destroy.

* * *

The Southern Army's attack began at dawn. It lasted all day and throughout the night, never ceasing. Matt laid awake, unable to sleep for the constant barrage. He got up and he paced back-and-forth in his bed-clothes, anxiously rubbing at the silver ring on his right hand. He stopped at the window every few seconds to look out, hoping each time that the situation had changed for the fort's benefit, but it was always the same: Le Roux's Alphas attacked and Gil's Alphas defended, like a chess game come to life. The torches of the Southern Army glowed brightly in the darkness through the rain. _Oil torches_ , Matt knew. Gil had showed him how to light one once. The high battlements of the fort teemed with busy Westerners whose steadfast efforts worked tirelessly to ensure the stronghold wasn't breeched; the rest had fallen back to the keep. Every few hours a fresh crew would arrive to relieve their comrades so the others could return to the barracks to eat, sleep, and try to dry their drenched clothes by the fire.

                On the third day at the breakfast-hour, Matt grabbed Gil's cloak and tugged it on, then left the bedchamber. Like every day since Gil's imprisonment, he left the keep and crossed the courtyard to the armoury, where he begged the sentry for permission to see his Alpha-mate.

                "I'm sorry, Matthew," he said regretfully. "Orders."

                Matt nodded, then went to the kitchens to help cook meals and launder clothes. The first time he had showed up begging work, they had refused and sent him away. It wasn't right, they said. He should be inside. A day later, Matt returned. "Please," he said in choppy, incomplete German, "I'm going crazy in that room. I need to keep busy. I need to do something to distract myself. There's got to be _something_ useful I can do—?" Finally, the Cook had ceded and let Matt serve the solders' meals. He ran back-and-forth from the kitchen to the barracks, smiling at the surprised Alphas and remembering what Gil had told him about morale. When he noticed the unserviceable state of one soldier's coat, he took it, cleaned it, and mended it as best as he could. He collected the soldiers' castoffs while they slept and tried to dry the articles for when they awoke. Some of the Alphas felt self-conscious being naked in an Omega's presence, but they got over it quickly. The promise of dry, clean clothes was worth the fleeting embarrassment. And it made it easier to tend their injuries, which were mercifully minor—a few cuts and scrapes. Matt aided the Surgeon with his limited knowledge of home remedies, and spoke soothingly as he held the hand of Alphas who required more severe medical attention. " _You're so brave_ ," he said sweetly, letting the Alphas squeeze his hand as the Surgeon worked. (One Alpha whimpered and buried his face against Matt's shoulder as the Surgeon stitched a wound; Matt stroked his head and repeated " _it's okay_ , _it's okay_ ," sympathizing with the soldier's deathly fear of needles.)

                Of course, Matt's usefulness lasted only for as long as Ludwig was unaware of it. As soon as the stern Acting-Commander saw Matt running about, he dragged him away from whatever he was doing and _escorted_ him back to the captain's bedchamber.

                "How many times do I have to tell you to _stay in here_?" he said, frustrated. "For gods' sake, Matthew, you're pregnant!"

                Matt sighed in exasperation. "Yes, I'm _pregnant_ —not paraplegic. I'm not useless, Ludwig. I want to help—"

                "It's too dangerous outside," Ludwig argued. "Or haven't you noticed that we're under attack? I know you're just trying to help, but do you have any idea what would happen to Gil if you got hurt?"

                "Do you have any idea what will happen to _me_ if _Gil_ gets hurt—?" Matt snapped back. Insomnia was making him short-tempered. "Please, Ludwig. I can't stay locked in this room all day, I... I keep picturing Gil, and I... I need a distraction," he said ambiguously. " _Please_?"

                Ludwig hesitated, then sighed. "Fine." Diplomatically, he said: "I'll give you a task, but you _will_ stay here. Gil had been planning for a siege for ages. No one knows more about Le Roux's strategy than he does, and if I could have him in the war-room with us, I would. But circumstances being what they are—the law being what it is," he growled, "that's impossible. So, see if you can't find anything useful in this mess." He waved in indication of the bedchamber's disorganized state. The last few chaotic days had laid waste to the Alpha's humble library. "You can read German, can't you? Can you read Gil's chicken-scratch? Good. Find me something— _anything_ —useful."

                "Okay," Matt agreed. It was better than nothing.

                Ludwig nodded curtly. "Send anything you find with a messenger. Don't leave this room. I mean it, Matthew. If I catch you outside again, I'll lock you in here."

                "I'm sorry," Matt replied, bowing his head. "I can't stand being in here alone. I just wanted something to do."

                Ludwig's eyes softened, but his tone was stern as ever. "You have something to do, keeping yourself and Gil's pup safe. No matter what happens to the rest of us, you have to survive, Matthew. You and you alone are carrying the continuation of our bloodline. If something happens to Gil and I, that pup"—he nodded to Matt's middle—"is the last Beilschmidt there is. You understand how important that is to us, don't you? You understand how important that is to Gil—?"

                Matt's chest tightened in grief and the weight of responsibility. "Yes, I do."

                "You have to be strong," Ludwig said. Awkwardly, he reached out and patted Matt's shoulder, feather-soft. "If something happens to us, then you have to be strong enough to survive. To escape. If the fort gets taken," he said seriously, "there's another way out. Go down into the cellar. In the far north-west corner there's a potato crate with a false bottom. If you pull off the bottom board, you'll see the entrance to a tunnel. It's dark and low, you'll have to crawl the whole way, but it'll take you away from the fort. It's about three kilometres long, more than enough of a head-start on any pursuers. Head west. Follow the sunset. And the markers—they look like this," he said, making a double-cross with his burly fingers. "Count them. When you reach seventy-five, turn toward the Rhine and follow it back to the Low Countries. Can you remember that?"

                "Yes," said Matt.

                Ludwig looked unconvinced. "Repeat it back to me," he ordered. Matt did.

                Finally, the Acting-Commander nodded. "If something happens to us," he repeated earnestly, "promise me you'll escape."

                Matt pressed his silver-ringed hand to his abdomen and nodded. "I promise."

* * *

That night Matt's candles burned long into the night as the siege continued and he sorted Gil's library. He knew it was a pointless task, designed by Ludwig to keep Matt occupied. Anything Gil deemed useful would have been taken to the war-room ages ago and shared with the officers. Gil was not a secretive Alpha; he trusted all his soldiers. And yet, the longer Matt spent reading Gil's diaries, taking especial notice of the dates, the more he recognized a recurring pattern. The days on which Gil wrote about encounters with the Southern Army were the days his scouting-parties returned from the forest. At first, this made sense. The scouting-parties were often sent on reconnaissance missions to gather information about the enemy's movements, but as Matt began tracking the parties to determine which ones operated where, he noticed that Second-Lieutenant Wolfe had been the most senior officer almost every time a scouting-party encountered Captain Le Roux.

                _Wolfe._

Matt suppressed an involuntary shiver as he sat back, thinking.

                Wolfe _was_ the most experienced officer, so it made sense that his scouts were sent into the most dangerous territory. _But every single time Le Roux was there—_? Matt didn't trust coincidences, but nor did he want to consider that one of Gil's officers had betrayed him. He knew that Wolfe disliked Gil, of course, but after making such a fuss about Gil breaking the law, would Wolfe really have committed treason? Gil had called Wolfe stubborn—he had called Wolfe a lot of things—but also dutiful. He had been sent to the Black Forest Fort by the Kaiser, after all.

                _Sent_? Matt thought skeptically. _Or exiled_?

                Gil's squire, Grey, had confided in Matt that Wolfe did not like the fort. He had taken the promotion because he had been ordered to, but did Wolfe really consider it a promotion to be sent away from the capital, where he had served his entire career? Did he really thank the Kaiser for sending him to the farthest reaches of the Empire, isolated, to be the underling of a twenty-year-old Alpha? Did he really feel praised, or did he feel abandoned? Matt tried to put himself in Wolfe's position and suddenly the Alpha's unfriendly attitude made sense. He was bitter. He resented the Great House for the position he had been placed in, especially after so many years of loyal service. _But does he resent them enough to betray the fort to the Southerners_? Grey had been adamant about—

                _Grey_!

                Quickly, Matt flipped to the back of Gil's diary, the day of Grey's passing. He read and re-read the passages, but nothing hinted at foul-play.

                _Of course not_ , Matt thought. _Wolfe's not stupid_. _Even if he was a Southern spy_ , _he wouldn't reveal anything in an officer's report._

                Sighing he defeat, he closed the diary and glanced at the bedside table, where Grey's charcoal sketch of Finn was sitting.

                _I wonder if he knows yet_ , Matt thought, feeling sad. He thought of blue-eyed Finn learning of his intended Alpha-mate's death and a wave of anxiety flooded him. He rubbed his flat abdomen, his silver ring glinting in the dull candlelight.

                He had been so afraid to wish for pups of his own once; so afraid of mating and giving birth. He had read too many medical texts at too young an age and the prospect of being pregnant had always frightened him. But all those fears seemed to quiet when Gil was with him, the Alpha's mere presence—his smile, his voice, his scent, his touch—chasing away the trepidation. Without even realizing it, Matt's fears had simmered since he had pair-bonded with Gil, because he trusted Gil to protect him and any family they had together. He trusted Gil not to hurt him or his pups like other Alpha-fathers sometimes did. He trusted Gil not to abuse or abandon them. Matt was still apprehensive about telling his Alpha-mate that he was pregnant, especially now—the fort was under siege; the timing couldn't be worse—but after everything Ludwig had said about Gil, and Gil's own admission that he wanted pups, Matt trusted Gil to love the pup that was slowly growing inside him. He finally understood the happy glow pregnant Omegas seemed to have. It's because they felt safe and ready to have pups; ready to stop worrying and fighting the natural instinct that pulled at them. (Or, was that just Matt?) He finally understood that unexplainable feeling people seemed to talk about; that excitement, which was equal parts nerves and joy. And he finally understood the difference between the Omegas he had been observing all his life: those who were in love with their Alpha-mates compared to those who were not. He had always associated being mated as being possessed, an act of submission, but that was all wrong. It wasn't about power, it was about balance. It was about trust. He finally understood just how deeply mated couples were bonded.

                _I want to be with Gil and take care of him and have pups with him_ , he longed—not because society had told him to, but because— _I love him. I want to share everything with him. I want to make him happy. I want to keep him safe. I want to spend the rest of my life with him_ , _because... I'm in love with him._

                _I can't lose him_.

                The only thing Matt truly feared now was what would happen to him—to them—if he lost Gil.

                Just then, the bedchamber door opened without a knock. So absorbed in his thoughts, Matt hadn't heard the intruder's approach. He expected Ludwig, but Ludwig always knocked.

                Wolfe stepped inside.

                Matt's posture tensed defensively. "Second-Lieutenant," he said evenly. "Is there something you needed?" he added as Wolfe began a leisurely circuit of the chamber. Matt stood. He didn't feel safe confined to the bed. He asked again: "Can I help you with something? This is the Fort Commander's private chamber, if you have no business here then please leave."

                Finally, Wolfe's eyes landed on Matt, brazenly roaming his body from head-to-toe. Only then did Matt realize he had never been alone with the Second-Lieutenant before.

                "Yes," Wolfe patronized, "it _is_ the Fort Commander's chamber. A shame we don't _have_ a Fort Commander right now, and it's because of you, Matthew."

                Matt stiffened. Wolfe had never used his given-name before. "What do you want?"

                "I bet you're scared," said Wolfe, closing the distance between them. Matt fought the desire to run. He didn't like the soft inflection in Wolfe's rough voice, which didn't reflect the look in his eyes. "I bet you'd do anything to keep your pup safe, wouldn't you, _Matthew_?" As he spoke Matt's name, a near-whisper, he reached out and gently caressed the Omega's cheek. "I can keep you safe—"

                Matt slapped him across the face. " _Don't touch me_ ," he said coldly in German.

                Wolfe's eyes blazed dangerously, but any fear Matt felt was overrun by anger at the Alpha's adulterous offer. For the first time in his life, fury inspired bravery. _If you touch me again_ , _I swear I'll kill you._ Wolfe hesitated briefly, his hands curled into fists, but the resolve in Matt's eyes was inarguable. The Second-Lieutenant sneered and stepped back.

                "You remember this, Omega," he said hard-heartedly. "You remember later when you're alone and scared at the mercy of the Southern Army that I offered to protect you."

                " _Get out of my room_!" Matt snapped. " _That's an order_ , _Second-Lieutenant_!"

                The Alpha bared his canines at the Omega, then turned on his heel and left the bedchamber, slamming the door behind him.

                The noise shattered Matt's courage. He sat heavily down on the bed and reached beneath his pillow for Gil's dagger, holding it tightly in both hands—shaking.

* * *

Up. Now," said someone in broken English.

                Ivan felt a Southerner kick his side, felt Al jolt awake. Ivan grunted. He glared up at the curly-haired soldier in disdain. Al hadn't slept for at least forty-eight hours, too sick to rest; too preoccupied gasping and gagging to sleep. After five days, the Omega still looked disconcertingly pale. It worried Ivan, even though Al said he was fine. _Liar_ , he thought, displeased. But rather than fight Al on it, he focused his anger on the Southerners. He blamed the soldier for waking Al now; Al, who was so exhausted that he had fallen asleep amidst the sounds of battle activity.

                " _Don't look at me like that_ , _you Eastern mother-fucker_ ," the Southerner snarled. In English, he said: "I hope you haven't forgotten how to be a soldier." He cut Ivan's tethers and hauled him roughly to his feet, dislodging Al, who blinked deliriously.

                " _Wha—_?" he murmured, rubbing his eyes. "What's going on? What do you want?" he grumbled at the curly-haired Southerner. "What are you doing?" he gasped in disbelief as Ivan's tethers were replaced with iron manacles. He tried to fight the Southerner, battering at the chains, but someone pulled him back by the shoulders. Ivan growled. "Hasn't he suffered enough?" Al shouted angrily.

                "Today's your _un_ lucky day, friend," said the Southerner wickedly. He tugged on the chains and forced Ivan to his side. "See, Captain Le Roux needs someone to pull the battering-ram to the fort gates. Why should we endanger ourselves when we have a perfectly good Eastern brute to sacrifice, he says—and I wholeheartedly agree." He grinned, showing his teeth. "If you get stuck with a dozen Western arrows, it saves us the trouble of executing you. Now that's being resourceful."

                "And if I refuse?" Ivan said defiantly. "Why should I fight your battle if you're just going to execute me?"

                "Because," said the Southerner simply, "you love your Omega-bitch too much to watch him die, don't you?"

                On cue, Al's captor pressed a knife to his throat. Al merely looked indignant, too used to being threatened and manhandled at this point to care.

                "You lot are seriously unimaginative," Ivan deadpanned in derision (though, he tensed).

                Al, too, ignored the knife, and said: "You can't do this, you cowards! Ivan's injured, those Westerners will kill him! Captain Le Roux can't—"

                "He _can_ and _will_ ," the Southerner interrupted. "Now come on, you big brute." He thumped Ivan in the back. "Better you than us. The sooner you break down that fucking gate, the sooner you'll be reunited with your diseased little bitch."

                Ivan was prodded to a large contraption with heavy iron wheels that sunk into the mud, softened by rainfall. There were four protruding limbs, indicating the necessity of four Alphas to pull it, though Ivan doubted he was going to receive assistance. The battering-ram hung between two thick posts by chains, and a couple of Southerners were fixing a wooden board to roof the top. It was thick and wide enough to stop arrows, but it would be a poor shield if the Westerners used fire.

                _Westerners_.

                Despite the Southerners' rude hospitality, the Western Army still haunted Ivan. He would gladly fight a flock of Southern soldiers barehanded if it meant not facing the Westerners. The black-and-white flags flapping at the fort's summit sent an apprehensive shiver down his spine. He swallowed. His palms were sweaty as they chained his wrists to the wooden mount; his heart pounded as they prodded him from behind. " _Get going_!" they snarled, but Ivan's legs were stiff. He closed his eyes, saw the little Omega-pup whose throat he had once cut, and snapped them open again. He did not want to be a soldier again.

                _Please don't make me do it again_.

                He took a deep breath and slowly stepped forward, throwing all of his weight into pushing the wagon.

                The mud made a gritty, sucking sound as the wheels turned laboriously. Ivan's muscles strained as he grit his teeth and pushed with all of his strength, making slow progress as the Southerners hollered at him from the safety of the forest. As soon as the battering-ram broke cover, approaching the fort, Ivan heard a piercing whistle, a signal from the Westerners atop the battlements. _It's not exactly a sneak-attack_ , Ivan thought bitterly. His foot slipped and he fell to his knees. The constant rain and back-and-forth marching of soldiers had pounded the earth into a marshy sludge, yet the desire to stay down pulled at him. What was the point of going forward? The Westerners would kill him. What was the point of going back? The Southerners would kill him.

                In the middle of the sodden no-man's-land, chained to a siege-machine, facing death, Ivan started laughing. He laughed and laughed, long and loud and hard—so hard that tears rolled down his cheeks. He laughed until he felt hot and desperate and gasped for breath.

                _Why am I doing this_? _Why am I doing this_? _Why don't I just end it now_?

                _Alfred._

                He howled in anguished outrage.

                A clap of thunder broke overhead, drowning his rage, reminding him just how insignificant a being he was.

                Reluctantly, he climbed to his feet and continued to push forward.

                Forward, never back. _Go forward_ , _comrade. Easterners do not run away. We go forward to glory or death._

                Forward.

* * *

Al was furious.

                How dare Le Roux use Ivan like a sacrificial lamb, like his life didn't matter at all? _How dare he_!

                A flood of the ripest, filthiest language Al knew spewed from his mouth as he paced restlessly back-and-forth like an agitated beast. It made him dizzy, but he couldn't sit still. He did his best thinking on his feet. The Southerners watched him, partly bemused, partly bored. Eventually, they ignored his senseless ramblings and settled down for the night. Al couldn't sleep, despite how fatigued he felt. His overtired brain struggled to formulate a plan-of-escape. He scanned the Southern encampment in search of tools; he spied on the soldiers, looking for greedy faces that could be bribed, or compassionate faces that could be convinced to help, or scared faces that could be convinced to desert. But it was useless. By midnight, Al felt raw.

                _Please_ , he begged the gods he barely believed in. He felt desperate. _Please help me. Tell me what to do. Send me a sign._

                It was very early-morning when the hollow blast of a bone-horn cut suddenly through the rainfall. At first, Al thought the Southern Empire had sent Le Roux re-enforcements and his stomach dropped in despair, but his opinion changed when his Southern guards bolted upright, startled by the noise. Quickly they drew their swords, their eyes going wide in alert. That's when Al realized he had never heard a Southern battle-call; the Southerners favoured the element of surprise. They were a quiet, creeping force.

                _But if it's not the South_ , _could it be the West_? _Is it Western re-enforcements_ —?

                The fetal thought died as the horn blasted again, and this time Al's sensitive ears recognized the sound. He knew that loud, brutal call. It had been chasing he and Ivan for weeks.

                The Southerners scrambled into a defensive half-circle at the encampment's edge, pushing Al roughly back behind them. Their suntanned faces paled as a chorus of deep-throated howls echoed overhead and the trees began to shake as a mass of bodies approached.

                A third and final horn blast chilled Al's blood.

                The Eastern Army had finally arrived.


	22. Lost Boys – Chapter Thirteen

**BLACK FOREST FORT**

**WESTERN EMPIRE**

Al threw himself behind the line of Southerners as the Eastern Army broke through the trees. _They're all huge_! he thought. It was like witnessing a whole army of Ivans—a frightening thought—and there were so, so many of them. The vanguard looked like clones of each other, each Alpha wearing a steel-grey uniform and brandishing a heavy sword. They didn't sneak like Southerners, and they didn't stalk like Westerners; they marched with purpose into the encampment without stopping or slowing. Even as their comrades fell beneath Southern swords and arrows, the Easterners pushed forward. Al had been captured by the Southern Army, then taken to face the Western Army, but he had never truly been afraid of any militant force until now.

                For the first time in his short life, Al cowered like a stereotypical Omega. For the first time he understood the debilitating fear that effected Omegas and left them helpless; he understood the need to submit to preserve himself.

                _Please_ , _don't hurt me_ , he found himself thinking, rooted to the spot.

                He knew he should run, but he had always been a fighter, not a fleer, and just then he couldn't move. _Move_ , _move_ , _move_! He wanted to run, but his legs were rigid and wouldn't obey. As the Easterners advanced, Al fell to his knees. They looked like Ivan—big and broad and stark and strong—but Ivan had never made Al feel like this. Once, he had been afraid of Ivan. Once, he had been cowed by the Alpha's loud roar and aggression, but this was worse because it was more, more, more. Facing the Easterners now was like facing a pack of infuriated Ivans, and that thought alone made Al's nature bow in surrender.

                _I don't like this feeling. It's wrong_ , _it's cruel._ _I don't like how frightened I am._

                He thought of the Islander Omegas he knew who were afraid of their Alpha-mates—a lot more than there should be, he realized—and how they submitted to and obeyed their Alphas without question. They were all timid, quiet little things. They were skittish, like Matt. Al had considered them weak. He hadn't understood why they never argued or fought back when struck. He had scorned them for their lack of self-respect, and even blamed them for their Alpha-mate's abuse in some cases. ( _You're letting him take advantage of you._ ) And it was all because he had never understood _this_ feeling—this fear; this horrible, paralyzing, self-preserving fear. Al had never understood the _desire_ to submit before. But now, as an Eastern Alpha stood over him, sword raised, he did.

                The soldier cocked his head, curls red as rust and eyes a pale sea-foam green. His face was freckled with red.

                At first, Al couldn't look away, too frightened to move, but when the Easterner frowned he quickly bowed his head. He pursed his lips and stared unblinking at the ground, waiting like a coward for the Alpha's strike. The nature that made him Al screamed: _Run_! _Fight_! _Do something_! but the nature that made him an Omega whimpered and flinched when the Easterner knelt in front of him. He took Al's chin in his hand and lifted his head, eyes searching the Omega's face for a sign of—

                _What_? _What do you want from me_? Al seethed. _Take it_ , _whatever it is_ , _take it_! _Just don't kill me_! the Omega in him yielded.

                The Easterner leant curiously down and sniffed at Al. Because of the battle—the blood, the sweat, the saliva—and the storm—the rain, the mud—it was hard to distinguish Al's scent, so the Alpha moved even closer and pressed his nose directly to Al's skin. Al could feel him inhale deeply as he pushed his nose up behind Al's ear at his hairline, like a curious newborn scenting its parents. Al felt his lips, too. He was muttering to himself in garbled Russian. His touch wasn't gentle, but nor was he being rough with Al. He wasn't intentionally trying to hurt or frighten the Omega, and that in itself made Al nervous. When the Alpha finally pulled back he was staring at Al in blatant confusion.

                "Ivan's alive?" he asked in disbelief.

                Al was too shocked to speak. He merely stared, wide-eyed.

                "Where?" the Easterner asked, shaking Al impatiently. It was urgent. " _Where_?"

                Timidly, Al raised his index-finger and pointed. "The fort," he said.

* * *

The Eastern Alpha's name was Sasha. He had been one of Ivan's bedmates when they were pups living in the Capital. They had been comrades by proximity and shared experience; they had shared everything—beds, clothes, food, even toothbrushes—and because of that, fast friends. Sasha had lived in a rural village before the Capital took him, just like Ivan, though he couldn't remember any of it, now. Only that he had had no living brothers. Ivan, Sasha said (babbled) was the closest thing he had ever had to a real brother.

                "Ivan saved my life," he said, dragging Al along behind him as he sought shelter from the battle. Quickly, he ducked into a thicket of evergreens. "He took my punishment for me—lashings; a dozen of them. It would have killed me, but he took it. He saved my life. Then he disappeared. I thought..."

                Suddenly, he shoved Al behind him to protect him from an attack. He wasn't fast, but he was big and strong. He reminded Al of a bear as he struck, cutting down the Southern attacker with a mighty blow, like batting away an incessant pest. The Southerner collapsed, his body broken.

                "I thought he was dead," Sasha finished, ignoring the interruption as he turned to meet Al's horrified gaze. "But he's not. I know his scent, and I can smell it here. I can smell him on _you_.

                "You're his Omega-mate." It wasn't a question, so Al didn't reply.

                "I owe Ivan a life-debt," he said, still staring at Al. His green eyes weren't blinking and it was really beginning to creep Al out. The Easterner seemed... unstable. His lips curled on one side, showing his teeth. "I don't want to owe anyone anything."

                "No," Al agreed. Cautiously, he lifted his hand and touched Sasha's face—cold as stone. "Protect me, and I'll take you to him."

                "I want to repay my debt," said Sasha fervently. He seemed not to notice Al's touch. He seemed so... single-minded. Despite the sounds and scents of battle all around them, or the rain that soaked him, it was like nothing else existed for Sasha except Al and the memory of Ivan that Al carried on his skin.

                _Is this the result of the Eastern Army's training_? _Is this half-mad Alpha the Empire's pride_? _Is this poor_ , _tortured_ , _depraved creature the price of strength_?

                "Come on," Al said, fighting to keep his voice even. Gently, he pushed against Sasha's chest and stepped out of his shadow. Sasha growled in confusion, but quieted when Al took his hand. "Come on," he repeated, leading the bloodied soldier toward the fort. "I'll take you to Ivan and this time _you_ can save _him_ , okay? You can repay your debt."

                Sasha relaxed a fraction and squeezed Al's hand too hard. "Okay."

* * *

Ivan grit his teeth, his face contorted in effort, and gave the wagon one final shove. The battering-ram swung forward and slammed against the tall gates of the Black Forest Fort. The force reverberated throughout the structure; Ivan felt it in his fingers and teeth. He could hear the Westerners shouting overhead. They peppered the covered structure with arrows—several arrowheads poked through, the shafts stuck—but Ivan was too exhausted to care. He stumbled and leant against the wagon, gasping and coughing. He was soaked and muddy; his body ached. He couldn't tell if his face was slick with rain or sweat, or if his lips were coated in saliva or blood. He spat the metallic taste of blood out of his mouth. The Westerners shouted at  him from above and the Southerners shouted at him from afar, but Ivan ignored them all. He closed his eyes, blood pounding in his ears. It pounded like footsteps, like marching.

                A howl—a chorus of howls—erupted over the treetops. A horn blasted.

                _No_.

                Ivan's heart pounded in time with the marching. It was slow, steady. It moved forward; forward, never back.

                _Go forward_ , _comrade. Easterners do not run away. We go forward to glory or death._

                Ivan's whole body tensed. _No—_! _Not here. Not now._

                _Alfred_!

                Ivan pulled forcefully at the chains that shackled him to the wagon, digging his heels into the slick, swampy ground. He arched his shoulders and bowed his head and twisted and turned fiercely, trying to break the chains and yank himself free, but it was futile. The chains held firm and Ivan slipped in the mud. He fell to his knees and crawled, clawing at the ground. The wagon shuddered and rolled as Ivan pulled it on his hands-and-knees like a draft-horse. It retreated a foot, then sunk into a rivet on an angle and one of the wheels broke. Ivan grunted and thrashed like a wolf, but the wagon refused to budge.

                _Fuck_! _Fuck_! _Fuck_!

                " _Fuck_!" he growled, swiping angrily at his face. A slick substance had dripped through a crack in the wooden roof and landed on his face. It felt warm. He stared at his fingertips as more of it dripped down on him, confused for a moment before he realized what it was:

                Oil.

                A moment later, several arrows struck the roof and sizzled.

                "FUCK!" Ivan cursed, desperately tugging at his shackles as the wagon surrounding him burst into flames.

* * *

No, wait!"

                Recklessly, Al grabbed the back of Sasha's tunic and jerked back. The Alpha barely felt it, but his puzzlement soon became anger as his eyes flashed in the firelight, looking wild. For a moment, Al thought that Sasha would attack him. And, indeed, Sasha raised his big gloved hand to strike Al or batter him back, but he stopped when Al shouted:

                "Archers!" He pointed to the battlements of the fort, where Acting-Commander Beilschmidt's archers were perched, their bows drawn taut and prepared to fire on anyone who came within range. Below the wall, in front of the gate, the Southerner's siege weapon blazed in the falling darkness.

                Al couldn't speak. He looked to Sasha in panic, pleading.

                Sasha wrenched himself free of Al, then yanked off his breastplate. It fell to the ground with a _clank_! As far as Al could tell, the Eastern soldiers were the only Alphas who wore metal armour, iron. The West and South favoured leather and layered fabric and chainmail for freedom of movement, but the East's forceful tactic required something a little more solid. And heavy, Al noticed. He watched as Sasha cut the straps of his armour away, letting the front and back pieces fall open, then he hefted it overhead to use as a shield. He glanced back at Al, and Al could have sworn he saw the fearless redhead smirk. Then Sasha charged onto the muddy field surrounding the castle, howling a guttural battle-cry in accompaniment. Al squeezed his eyes shut when the first arrow struck upon Sasha, afraid that his Alpha champion had been hit, but when he opened them again he was relieved to see that Sasha's armour was strong, and the Alpha was still running toward the gate, arrows bouncing and sliding off his makeshift shield.

                _Please_ , _please_ , _please_ , Al silently begged, watching with baited breath. He flinched at every loosed missile that hit it's mark. The Westerners were frighteningly accurate bowmen; the Islanders would have approved. _Please_ , _protect him_ , Al prayed, clasping his white-knuckled hands, feeling guilty about using Sasha as cannon-fodder, but not guilty enough to abandon Ivan.

                It was a trick, a manipulation. But not a Southerner's trick—an Omega's trick. Al knew that he was exploiting Sasha's strength for his own benefit. He knew he was taking advantage of the abused Alpha's single-minded desires, placing Sasha in danger to get what he wanted. He knew he was an Omega using an Alpha to do his bidding, but what choice did he have? He was trapped in a body too weak to fight the battle himself. This wasn't play-fighting or hunting games, this was real war. He couldn't compete with armies of fully-grown soldiers trained to kill. None of his Alpha tricks would help him now—pretending to _be_ an Alpha wouldn't help him. But for the first time in his life, being an Omega _would_.

                Sasha slipped in the mud and fell to his knees, the shield falling away. An arrow pierced his bicep.

                " _Sasha_!" Al cried, deliberately making his voice high and helpless.

                The Alpha tensed, hearing the Omega. He looked back at Al and Al saw it the moment his Alpha nature took over, responding instinctively to the Omega's call. He ripped the arrow out of his bicep, straightened his shield as he pushed himself back to his feet, and continued forward.

                Al was relieved, but guilty as well, because he knew he would beg and cry and scream himself hoarse if it would encourage Sasha. He felt frustrated, too, hating that screaming was all he could do while the love of his life suffered and burned—! NO. Ivan was alive. He had to be alive, otherwise everything they had suffered together would be for nothing. Al refused to believe that he had finally found someone to share his life with only to lose him like this.

                _You promised that we would go home together_ , he thought, feeling tears on his cheeks. _You promised_ , _Ivan_. _I can't lose you_.

                _You have to live_.

* * *

Ivan bowed his head and coughed. He curled his body into as small a shape as possible beneath the burning wagon, afraid of the fire that licked the oil-soaked wood. Shirtless, he covered his nose and mouth with his sweaty palm and tried to take shallow breaths, but the smoke was thick and choked him. He could feel the sting of it in his throat and nose and eyes, making them water and run; he could feel it in his lungs, making him dizzy and sick. He spat onto the ground and watched his saliva sizzle like the beads of sweat on his body. He tugged at the chains, but it was useless.

                He was going to die. It was already happening. And there was nothing he could do about it.

                _Alfred_ , he thought sadly.

                Then suddenly the wagon jerked, as if a weight had collided with it. At first, Ivan thought that another wheel had broken, or that the heavy battering ram had fallen from its suspension ropes. But instead of sinking deeper into the mud, the base of the lopsided wagon began to lift. A torrent of smoke poured in, impeding Ivan's vision, making him flinch back, then a gloved hand emerged. It groped for a moment, then landed on Ivan's shoulder and pulled him carelessly hard. He fell into a brace of sullied, sweaty fabric and felt the solid flesh and bone of an Alpha's warm chest underneath. The Alpha gasped, his breathing laboured as he tried and failed to drag Ivan from the wreck.

                "Stop—" _cough cough_ "Stop it, let go!" Ivan could feel the chains cutting grooves into his chafed skin, afraid that his forceful rescuer would pull his limbs from their sockets. "The chains!" he growled, mustering his strength to shove the Alpha back.

                "Ivan," said the Alpha, making Ivan stop.

                He couldn't determine the Alpha's scent because of the smoke, and he didn't recognize the growling voice, but the soldier was built like an Easterner, not unlike himself. Ivan wondered if he was one of the scouts pursuing he and Al, or a soldier of the greater Eastern Army. As the Alpha's face appeared through the smoke, Ivan wondered why a member of his deserted company was trying to rescue him.

                "Ivan," he repeated, like Ivan's name was a word of good-luck. He forced himself closer beneath the wagon, his skin greasy with smoke residue, but it wasn't the Alpha's squared face that struck a chord in Ivan's memory; it was his mane of rust-coloured hair. He had never seen such a shade before or since. He remembered the unruly sight and feel of it. He remembered ruffling it in play, and sleeping with his nose buried in it a long time ago.

                " _S-Sasha_?" he gasped in disbelief.

                The Alpha paid him a rueful grin, then raised his sword without warning and struck Ivan's chains a powerful blow. One snapped, then the other, the iron falling away until Ivan stood wearing the manacles like bracelets. Hastily, he crawled out into the open, following his former-comrade, and not a moment too soon. The wagon collapsed.

                 " _Sasha_!" he repeated, then buckled under a coughing fit. He gulped mouthfuls of fresh air to clear his lungs, purging the smoke, then tried again. "Sasha, I can't believe it!" he cried, clutching the redhead. He felt the weight of Sasha's hands on his back, clapping him in reunion. It felt good—familiar.

                "I thought you were dead," Sasha said, releasing him.

                "I thought I was, too," he replied, and he didn't just mean tonight. Fervently, his eyes scanned the tree-line. Sasha was wearing the uniform of the Eastern Army—sans armour—and carrying a state-issued sword, which meant the Eastern Army had finally reached the Southern encampment, which meant that Al was in serious danger. The fear must have shown on his face, because Sasha pointed, and said:

                "Your Omega is there."

                The moment Ivan locked eyes with Al, he started forward. _Just stay there_! he gestured, limping as fast as he could. _I'll come to you_!

                Al smiled in relief, looking hopeful. But his expression quickly changed. His blue eyes went wide as he began gesturing wildly and shouting, though Ivan couldn't hear him; the roar of the fire had left him momentarily half-deaf. Ivan shook his head and non-verbally repeated his prior message:

                _Stay there_!

                That's when Sasha grabbed his arm, and only then did Ivan realize that the Western archers had gone.

* * *

A host of Southerners approached from the west; a host of Easterners took position from the east, both forces coming together to do battle at the foot of the Western fort, nothing but a muddy field and two lone Alphas standing between them.

                Al screamed for Ivan as the two armies charged at each other. "RUN!" he hollered, gesturing wildly.

                Ivan and Sasha began to run, but their pace was slow and clumsy. Al's heart beat madly as he watched their toddling progress, knowing that they wouldn't reach safety before the two armies collided. He watched, petrified, as a sea of bodies—steel-grey and royal blue—swallowed Ivan.

                "NO!"

                He could see Sasha's rust-red hair and kept his eyes locked on it, knowing that Ivan would be nearby. Sasha swung and slashed with his sword, blocking and serving blows. He fought recklessly in the melee, his teeth bared and snarling. Once, Al even saw those big Alpha canines bite someone. He looked possessed. He fought with no regard for whom his attacks felled, enemies or allies, focused solely on escape. As the bodies surged and shifted, Al caught sight of Ivan at Sasha's side. Weaponless, he fought with his fists, looking no less desperate than his former-comrade. He threw his whole weight into his fists, but relied on Sasha's sword to cover him, as if remembering a routine from long ago. Together, they struggled through the onslaught, clawing like drowning pups for the surface. But they weren't going to make it. Ivan wasn't going to make it.

                "Gods damned Alphas!" Al snarled.

                Quickly, he doubled back into the abandoned encampment, now a cemetery of corpses, and knelt at the first body he saw that was still armed. He unclenched the dead Easterner's fingers from the handle of his sword, not unlike the one Ivan owned, and hefted the heavy weapon up. He remembered its weight and the way it pulled him forward as he ran back to the field and charged into the fray before fear could take hold of him again.

                "Get—out—of—my—way!" he yelled, swinging the sword with all of his Omega strength to cut a path through the crush of bodies. He was shoved back-and-forth, the weight of the sword and slippery ground throwing him off-balance, but Al was an Islander. He was no novice when it came to hunting in poor weather conditions. As the soldiers fell, blinded by rain, too heavy to mind their balance, Al dodged around them, under them. He was faster and lighter and much smaller than they. He wasn't a soldier, but he _was_ one of the best hunters in Scott Kirkland's pack. As if he was hunting, Al concentrated on Ivan's deep voice and let his sensitive ears guide him in the right direction. Finally, he saw the Alpha grappling with an enemy. He saw Ivan's teeth clenched and his violet eyes blazing, his naked chest bloodied and covered in scars—old scars; new scars—as his muscles strained to fend off an attack.

                " _Ivan_!" Al screamed, his high-pitched voice rising above the sounds of battle. Ivan's head snapped up and his eyes glared at Al, but the Omega ignored it. " _Here_! _Catch_!" he said, and threw the sword overhand like a javelin, like a hunting spear shaft-first. It sailed in an arc over the soldiers' heads and landed a foot from Ivan's person, skinning the back of his attacker before cleaving into the ground. Al saw Ivan grip the handle, but nothing else. He ducked beneath a sword thrust and was forced to retreat.

                _I hate Alphas. I hate Alphas. I hate Alphas_ , he thought repeatedly as he picked his way along, keeping low. _If I live through this_ , _I'm never going to wish I was an Alpha again._

                " _Ah_!"

                Al cried-out as a bloody corpse slammed into him, falling into the mud. It pushed him into a living soldier—a Southerner—who moved in reflex to stab. Al flinched and automatically closed his eyes. Then he heard Ivan's voice:

                " _No_ ," he growled.               

                Al opened his eyes to find the Southerner run through with the sword in Ivan's hand. His other hand wound around Al's middle and pulled the Omega snug against his chest, using his body to shield Al.

                One, two, three. Every step Ivan took, every swing of his sword pushed the soldiers back. He moved forward, never back. He moved forward with a strength and determination Al had never seen; forward toward the forest and safety. Forward toward freedom. Al hadn't realized how suffocating the battlefield was until he and Ivan finally burst free of it.

                " _Go_! _Keep going_!" Sasha snapped, shoving Ivan forward. " _Don't look back_ , _go forward_!"

                Forward.

                Ivan didn't look back, but Al did. He lifted his head only for an instant, but it was enough to see the arrow—Western, Southern, Eastern; he didn't know whose—whirling toward Ivan. His heart stopped. He didn't have time to scream, or move. He didn't have time to bow his head. He saw the arrow flying through the sky. He heard the whistle of its fletching. He felt its impact as it hit its mark and he suddenly fell beneath Ivan's weight; Ivan, who had fallen beneath Sasha's weight.

                " _Sasha_!" Al cried, crawling out from under Ivan.

                Sasha lay sprawled upon Ivan, the arrow piercing the base of his neck. He had leapt in its path to save Ivan. And now he was dying.

                Al grabbed the redhead's arms and began dragging him toward the forest to safety. " _No_ , _no_ , _no_ ," he chanted, feeling guilt and grief press down on him. " _You saved us_ , _you can't die. You saved Ivan._ "

                Ivan wrapped Sasha's arm around his shoulders and half-carried the redhead into the forest. There, he laid him down.

                Sasha's bloodied lips smiled at Ivan. He was shaking. "I-I-I—I'm not going back," he gasped, as if Ivan would reprimand him for dying. "I-I-I—I'm not going to do this anymore."

                "Sasha—"

                "I-I-I—I'm going to die here, so you can live," Sasha continued, as if Ivan hadn't spoken.

                Ivan shook his head. "No, we can save you," he said, cupping the back of Sasha's head. "Al." Ivan looked back at the stunned Omega. His violet eyes were no longer fierce, but soft and pleading. "We can save him, right?"

                Al pursed his lips. _No_ , he thought, _I don't think we can. Maybe Dad could_ , _or Matt_ , _or Thierry_ , _but we can't._

                Fortunately, Sasha spoke before Al had to. He looked up at Ivan, and very seriously said:

                "Now my debt is paid."

                "No," Ivan growled. "Sasha, you can't—"

                Sasha raised a shaking hand and grabbed Ivan's forearm. He squeezed weakly. "You escaped it, Ivan. Now I will, too. Go with your Omega," he said laboriously. "Go somewhere far. Have pups. Have a life free of fear. _Live_ ," he emphasized. "We will meet again someday, comrade, in the world beyond this one; in the great hall of warriors we will feast together. I will save you a seat beside me. Until then," he gasped, his voice fading with each word, "do something for me." He lifted his head a fraction and Ivan leant down to hear his dying friend's last words. So close, Sasha's lips brushed Ivan's ear. So close, even Al barely heard it. "When this is over," he whispered, gasping; choking, "when you've found a new home, have a drink for me, brother... and go... _forward..._ "

                Sasha's shaking ceased and his pale eyes stared sightlessly up at Ivan. He was gone.

* * *

Matt stood at the window, staring out into a storm of swords and blood and fire. The vicious sounds of battle hurt his ears; the sounds of Alpha's howls and screams, thunder not loud enough to drown the sounds of the dying. How many of them would fall tonight? How many Alphas would die fighting their Kaiser's, Emperor's, Tsar's battle? Matt's heart felt heavy as he touched the handle of Gil's dagger, which he had stuck into his sash, taking comfort in its protection, even if he didn't know how to wield it; even if he wasn't strong enough to. But as he touched it, his thoughts went to his Alpha-mate—again—and that was more comforting than any weapon could be. Even though Gil was imprisoned, Matt believed that the Alpha would still protect him. Somehow. Somehow he _had_ to believe it, because what else did Matt have to hope for? He had relied on Gil for everything since coming to the fort; and he had relied on his family before that.

                _I can't do this alone_ , he thought, absently touching his abdomen. _Omegas aren't meant to be alone._

                He stepped back, suddenly frightened of the battlefield, and bumped into the bedside table. Grey's sketch of Finn fluttered to the floor and landed face-down.

                A fresh wave of anxiety flooded Matt as he knelt to retrieve it, intending to smooth its creased edges, but he stopped when he saw a note hastily scribbled on the back. He hadn't seen it before. It was small and sloppy, and the corner was stained with dry blood, Grey's blood, but the note itself was legible. It was a single word in French: _Loup_.

                _Wolf._

And, suddenly, the last piece of a puzzle fell into place.

                Matt stared down at the word in—no, not disbelief. Disbelief implied shock, as if he hadn't already suspected Wolfe of treason.

                One of Gil's Alphas had been plotting against the fort from the beginning. One of them had reported the Fort Commander's pair-bonding to the Great House, ensuring Gil's imprisonment. One of them had deliberately neglected his scouting missions and lied in his reports to hide the Southerners presence. One of them had been plotting with Le Roux to depose Gil and usurp the fort for a long time. One of them had murdered Grey when the unfortunate squire had seen something that he was not meant to see. And now Matt knew who it was. Grey's last word confirmed it.

                _I should've said something sooner_ , he knew. _So_ , _why didn't I_?

                Why didn't he reveal the evidence that pointed to Wolfe? Why didn't he say anything about his suspicions—his _Omega's intuition_ —sooner? Why did he keep quiet and pretend he didn't know?

                  _Because Gil trusted Wolfe._ _And I trusted Gil._

But even Fort Commanders made mistakes.

                Matt knew that he had to tell Ludwig as soon as possible—he had to tell anyone, everyone. They had to know that their present second-in-command was a traitor. But before he could reach the bedchamber's door, it swung open.

                _Second-Lieutenant Wolfe._

                Quickly, Matt hid the sketch behind his back.

                "Omega," said Wolfe, stepping inside. Matt felt urgency pulling at him, but he forced himself not to flinch. He had to look natural. He couldn't risk revealing what he knew, but Wolfe's eyes were not kind as he studied Matt's figure, his face. "You're white as milk," he sneered, taking pleasure in the Omega's fear. "I told you, didn't I? That the Southerners would come for you. If this fort gets taken, it'll be your fault. If all the Alphas die, it'll be because of _you_."

                _No_ , Matt thought, swallowing the denial. _It'll be you_.

                Wolfe's eyes narrowed. "What's that behind your back?"

                Matt tensed. He had begun folding the sketch into a flying projectile—a paper-aircraft, like he and Al used to do with Arthur's recipes as pups. His fingers worked deftly, but the paper crackled.

                Wolfe said: "What are you hiding? Show me," he ordered, stalking forward.

                Matt hurried backwards, retreating to the open window. "It's nothing. It's just a letter... to Gil," he lied. "Just a silly love letter from a silly Omega. It's nothing to you."

                "Give it to me," Wolfe demanded, showing his teeth. " _Now_!"

                Before Wolfe could reach him, Matt spun and fired the paper-aircraft out the window. A fierce wind caught it and it soared rapidly to the ground below, hitting a passing Alpha, but Matt didn't see whom. Wolfe shoved him aside and flailed for the sketch, but his reach was too short and too slow. He growled in frustration, then turned his eyes on Matt, glaring coldly in hatred.

                "You know," he said. It wasn't a question.

                "That you're a traitor?" Matt challenged. There was no point in denying it, now. "That you sold the fort to the South? Yes, I know."

                Wolfe's hand shot out and seized Matt's shirt-front, pulling him forward. "Do you also know that Captain Le Roux wants you dead, you little bitch? That your death is a condition of the contract he and I have?

               "Let's you and I take a little walk, _Matthew_ ," he growled, his lips curling back in a cruel grin. His eyes glared dangerously—hungrily at the young Omega. "It's time you saw the view from the top of the keep."

                Wolfe manhandled Matt roughly into the corridor, then dragged him up the stairs. Matt had never ascended the stairs to the third-level before; there was no need. It opened onto a wide flat landing—the roof of the keep. It was windy and wet as rain lashed the stone; thunder crashing; lightning crackling in the sky above. The storm threatened to knock Matt back, but Wolfe's grasp on his arm was tight. To the south, the sounds of struggle rose in a cacophony of shrieks and screams and howls and growls and the constant sharp sound of metal-on-metal. To the west, the Rhine was swollen. It frothed and crashed as the wind stirred it, water sloshing and spilling over the dam like an infuriated beast trying to break through. To the north the sky was dark despite dawn's approach, and thunder rumbled overhead like the hammering beat of war drums. It was to the north that Wolfe dragged Matt, lightning flashing in the Alpha's reflective eyes, making him look like something cold and cruel from the depths of the underworld. Lightning struck again and Matt habitually began to count.

                One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

                Matt tried to resist Wolfe's pull. He tried to find traction on the wet stone, but the rain slicked it and his feet slid clumsily forward. " _Let go of me_!" he shouted, slashing at Wolfe with Gil's dagger. The blade sliced into the Alpha's hand and he flinched, surprised, but he recovered fast.

                " _Bitch_!" Wolfe grabbed Matt's wrist and jerked it back, tearing the dagger from his grasp. Snarling, he threw it aside. At the edge of the rooftop, he grabbed Matt by both shoulders, and said: "Go ahead, little Omega. Scream," he threatened, tightening his hold. Matt felt his feet slip on the edge; the wind pushed fervently. Far below him, a wicked battle raged. Lightning struck again, closer this time.

                One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven.

                Wolfe leant down over Matt and pressed his curled lips to the Omega's ear from behind. Maliciously, he said: "Where is your knight-in-shining-armour now?"

* * *

Ludwig felt something brush his shoulder. He looked up, then down. A paper projectile was lying on the stone, rapidly losing its shape to the rain. He rescued it and unfolded it carefully, trying not to tear the sodden paper. It was a sketch of an Omega-pup, a cute, smiling little thing; a rather talented study. _Someone's Omega-mate_? he wondered. (He was too old to be anyone's Omega-pup; Gil's Alphas were relatively young.) He turned it over in his hands, searching for a signature so that he might return the sketch to its owner. That's when he saw the scribbled note: _Loup_. Ludwig didn't know French, but seeing it made him feel suddenly anxious. There was blood on the paper.

                "Soldier," he said, halting a passing Alpha. "Can you read French?"

                "No, Commander, but Fischer can," said the Alpha, pointing to his companion.

                Fischer looked at the sketch Ludwig presented, and read: " _Wolf_ , sir. It's the French word for _wolf_."

                Ludwig looked from the sketch to the paper-aircraft's high trajectory, following it backwards to Gil's window. Matt's window.

                _Wolfe._

" _Fuck_!" he cursed.

                He took off running, leaving the two stunned Alphas behind. _Oh_ , _no. Oh_ , _shit. Oh_ , _fuck._ If anything happened to Matt, Gil would be heartbroken. He would be inconsolable. He would be livid. _He might actually murder someone_ , _probably me._ Because whether Gil wanted to admit it or not, Matt had become the most important thing in his life. Matt, who was Ludwig's pregnant brother-by-mating-law; the Omega he had promised to look after; the Omega-mate his brother loved more than anything; the Omega whom Wolfe wanted dead—

                An accident, that's all it would take. The fort was under siege, a battle raging outside. How likely it would be for a fifteen-year-old Omega to get hurt. No one would question it. No one would call it anything but a tragic accident.

                Ludwig reached the keep's door and pushed, but it didn't open. He tried his key, but it wasn't locked. It was barricaded.

                CRASH! _Bang_! Crumble—!

                " _Commander_!" someone shouted. " _The outer wall has been breached_! _Enemies are flooding in_!"

                " _Commander_! _The west bank has been taken_ , _it's overrun_!"

                " _Commander_! _We're nearly out of oil and arrows_ , _we can't hold them back anymore_! _They'll take the fort_!"

                " _Commander_ , _what should we do_?" they begged, looking to Ludwig for guidance.

                "Uh, well..." Ludwig whipped his head from side-to-side, from face-to-terrified-face. Then he looked back at the keep, and felt stuck. _What do I do_? _How do I fix it_? _Is this how Gil feels all the time_? The weight of responsibility was crushing. The soldiers' blind trust and pleading made Ludwig feel slightly nauseous; guilty; stressed. _What do we do_ , _Commander_? _Tell us what to do_! It was no wonder that after two years Gil was starting to break.

                "Take the catapults to the south wall and scatter the enemy's forces. Scare them senseless," he said, mouth working faster than his brain. "All archers back to your posts, but fire sparingly; make them think you're fully-armed. Use what oil is left to set the field ablaze"—he thought of the barricaded keep, and added—"and barricade the doors. Use anything we've got," he ordered. "Use _everything_ we've got. _No one_ gets passed the outer walls. I want all infantry combat-ready and assembled in the ward five minutes ago. If that gate doesn't hold them back, we will."

                " _Yes_ , _sir_!"

                As the officers dispersed, Ludwig rushed to the locked armoury. Matt was his brother-by-mating-law, but he, at least, was not Ludwig's priority. He was Gil's.

                "Open the door!" he demanded.

                The sentry looked shocked. "But Commander, the Black Guards said—"

                " _I said open this fucking door_!" Ludwig roared. " _That's an order_!"

                The sentry hurried to obey. But in his haste he fumbled the keys, which provoked a growl from the impatient Acting-Commander, and then got shoved heedlessly aside.

                "Gil!" Ludwig grabbed Gil's shirt-front and dragged him toward the door. "It's Wolfe," he explained, "he's the one who betrayed us. Matt knows—Wolfe has him barricaded in the keep."

                If Gil was shocked by Wolfe's betrayal, he didn't show it. He didn't pause or ask questions, he just moved. In one swift motion, he unbuckled Ludwig's sword-belt and strapped it over his shoulder, then wrenched himself free of his brother's grasp and bolted out of the armoury faster than Ludwig had ever seen. He dodged the amassing infantry and ran to the keep. He ignored the battle, the storm. He didn't slow when he reached the high stonewalls that rose above him. He didn't stop to strategize the best point of entry, or worry about the danger to himself. He just leapt onto the adjacent wall and started to climb up, up, up. He didn't even look scared as the wind howled and the rain lashed and thunder and lightning filled the sky, just determined. Just an Alpha on a mission to rescue his Omega-mate. Just angry as all fucking hell.

* * *

Poor little Matthew," Wolfe taunted, leaning down farther; holding Matt's upper-body suspended above the fall. "Such a helpless, frightened little thing. So distraught over his Alpha-mate's fate. So very young and foolishly in love. So very tragic that he slipped and fell off the top of the tower."

                Matt was frozen, too afraid to fight lest he lose his balance. If Wolfe let go of him, he would fall to his death.

                "Don't worry, _schatz_ ," he mocked, kissing Matt's neck, "you'll soon be reunited with your captain in death. If the Black Guard doesn't do it"—he released Matt's shoulder to hold his neck, miming a hanging; now supporting the Omega's weight one-handed—"then I will. One way or another, Gilbert Beilschmidt will soon die... and it'll be entirely your fault, Matthew. It'll be all because of _you_."

                Matt felt hot tears mix with the icy raindrops on his face. _No_ , he thought sadly, heartbrokenly. _Please no_ , _I'll do anything. I'll suffer anything—anything_! _Just don't hurt Gil_. _Please. He doesn't deserve it. He's a good captain_ , _and a good Alpha. He's_ my _Alpha._

 _Please_.

                "Farewell, Matthew Beilschmidt."

                Wolfe let go.

* * *

 _AAH_ —!"

                Matt's arms wind-milled as he plummeted forward, catching the edge of the stone wall in his hands. He hung there suspended above a deathly fall, fingers digging painfully into the crevices, and only then did he realize that he wasn't the one who had screamed. Wolfe had. Wolfe had been yanked suddenly back, that's why he had let go of Matt. That's why Matt had lost his balance, not because Wolfe had pushed him but because Wolfe had been attacked by—

                _Gil_!

                Matt couldn't believe his eyes as he pulled himself up, back to safety. Gil's canines were sunk deep in Wolfe's neck, coating his lips with blood. The ex-captain was holding the second-lieutenant by the throat with one hand, while the other held a sword he tried to plunge into Wolfe's chest as Wolfe tried desperately to defend himself. His sword was crossed with Gil's in a battle of physical strength; Gil trying to stab Wolfe and Wolfe trying to stop him. Finally, he succeeded in shaking Gil off. He stumbled sideways, then braced himself as Gil attack again. It was vicious, all swords and fists and teeth, like two wild animals fighting a battle of dominance. No, a battle of life-and-death. Matt had never seen Gil move so fast or furiously before, even in practice. He had never seen his Alpha-mate look so beastly, so—dangerous. It was fierce. If Wolfe looked like something cold and cruel from the underworld, then Gil looked like fire. He snarled and snapped as his body twisted, so agile it would have been graceful if not for his violent purpose. Violent was a good word to describe Gil right then. He had lost all of his softness and kindness and compassion as he fought, reduced to his basest instincts. It was enough that Wolfe actually looked scared.

                " _You can't beat me_!" Gil snarled, slashing at Wolfe. " _I'm the Alpha here_ , _not you_! _Matthew is mine_! _This fort is mine_! _I'll tear you limb from fucking limb_!"

                Yes, there was naked fear in Wolfe's eyes. He was losing the fight to his junior, and he knew it. Maybe that's why he suddenly shouted: " _No_ , _Matthew_!" at the top of his voice, injecting as much fear and shock as possible.

                Matt frowned in misunderstanding, but Wolfe's trick worked. Gil faltered. In reflex, he turned to see if Matt was okay, lowing his guard for the briefest moment—

                —and Wolfe struck.

                The second-lieutenant slammed into him, forcing the ex-captain to the ground. Gil hit the stone hard and the sword was battered out of his hand. He thrust his fists up to defend himself, but Wolfe's heavy body forced him down, his weight trapping the younger Alpha.

                "I knew it!" Wolfe laughed, pressing down on the blade of his sword, fighting Gil's defense. "I knew that little bitch would be your death!"

                "Have you no dignity?" Gil seethed. He spat at Wolfe. "Relying on tricks? You're a coward, Wolfe! A fucking coward!"

                "Maybe," Wolfe smirked, "but at least I'm not a dead— _Ah_!"

                Matt leapt on Wolfe's back and snaked his forearms around the Alpha's neck, trying to choke him. _I won't let you hurt my Alpha-mate_! he thought as Wolfe reared back, gasping and clawing at the little Omega, trying to pull him off. Matt bared his teeth and squeezed with all of his strength. _I won't let you hurt Gil_!

                " _Fucking bitch_!"

                Wolfe's fist seized Matt and pulled him roughly overhead. Matt tumbled down, but rather than hit the stone, he found himself imprisoned in Wolfe's steely grasp.

                "Don't move," he warned Gil, who stood ready to attack. "If you care at all about this bitch, don't move."

                Gil stiffened. "Don't..." he said, reaching instinctively out. "Don't hurt Matt..."

                Wolfe was panting hard; Matt could feel it. " _Don't move_!" he repeated, paralyzing Gil mid-step. "Good. Now, drop the sword."

                "Let Matt go—"

                " _Drop the sword_! Drop it or I'll cut his fucking throat. I'll kill your Omega-mate, Beilschmidt. Your _pregnant_ Omega-mate," he added cruelly.

                Gil's face paled and his blood-red eyes went wide, losing their fire. Finally, he looked scared. He stared at Matt in open-mouthed disbelief, his lips moving but no sound coming out. "I-I-I—" He faltered, then tried again. "I-I-I— I don't... Matt?"

                Matt could only nod. _I'm so sorry_ , _Gil. I'm sorry._

                The sword fell from Gil's hand with a clatter. He took a bewildered step back, then another. "Please," he said. He raised his hands in surrender. "Don't hurt him, Wolfe. I yield. Please, let him go. You can kill me, okay? You can do whatever you want to me, just let Matt go."

                " _No_!" Matt cried.

                Wolfe grinned. "On your knees," he spat.

                Like a defeated dog, Gil knelt.

                Wolfe threw his head back and laughed. "Not so tough now, are you, Gilbert Beilschmidt? The Alpha-pup who became the Fort Commander, and then threw it all away for the sake of an Omega. How pathetic! The Alpha-pup who broke the law and lost the fort and got everyone killed. _That's_ how history will remember you. Not as a leader, not as a hero—as a failure! You failed to protect the Empire. You failed to protect your comrades. You failed to protect your Omega-mate. You've failed everyone, _pup_ , just like your Alpha-father did when the East attacked. But that's what you've always wanted, isn't it? To be just like Vater. Well, congratulations—you did it. You're a failure and a traitor, Gilbert Beilschmidt—"

                " _No_!" Matt yelled. "No, he's not! Just shut up! He's not—! Gil's a _good_ captain, and a _good_ Alpha! And that's something you can _never_ take away from him, Wolfe! _Never_! He's more of an Alpha than you'll ever be!"

                " _Silence_!" Wolfe struck Matt. "You know nothing about it, you fucking foreigner! You know nothing of the Western Empire!"

                "The Kaiser trusted you!" Matt argued. "He promoted you—"

                " _Promoted_ me?" Wolfe pressed a hand over Matt's mouth to silence him. " _Banished_ me, you mean. He sent me into the middle of gods-forsaken nowhere to play second-in-command to a swaddling-pup! It wasn't a promotion, it was a punishment! I serve the Empire loyally for ten fucking years and what do I get in return? _Nothing_! The chance to play second, always second! I should've been something great, but you took it from me!" he yelled a Gil "I should've been the Fort Commander, not you! It should've been _me_!"

                "Is that what Le Roux promised you?" Gil guessed. He spoke to Wolfe, but his eyes were fixed on Matt. "Once I'm dead and the fort defeated, you'll take over command? Is that it, Wolfe? You'll become a permanent puppet of the Southern Empire? Did you really betray the West and sell the Black Forest Fort—all of your comrades—for a fucking promotion?"

                "It means my own command," Wolfe said shamelessly, "so yes, I did. But know this, _Captain_ : I would have happily sold you for free."

                A lightning-bolt lit Wolfe's victorious face.

                One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

                Another bolt crackled overhead, closer—closer—momentarily flooding the rooftop with light. A metallic glint caught Matt's eye. It was Gil's dagger, lying on the ground just out of reach. And for the briefest moment time seemed to stop. He looked at the dagger. Then he looked at Gil. And he knew exactly what he was going to do. He should have been afraid— _terrified_ —and maybe he was, but he didn't feel it. Not this time.

                _I'm sorry_ , _Gil. Please forgive me._

                One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

                Matt sunk his teeth into Wolfe's hand and bit down until he tasted blood. Wolfe howled in surprised outrage and recoiled, and Matt sprang forward. He ducked beneath the second-lieutenant's swiping hand and retrieved Gil's dagger. Then he ran.

                He fought the wind, slipping on stone, and leapt the final few steps to the peak of the keep. Then he rounded on Wolfe with the dagger extended, a challenge in his violet eyes.

                One. Two. Three.

                Wolfe was right behind him, sword in hand. He laughed in genuine glee as he squared his broad shoulders, preparing to attack.

                "Oh, this is too perfect," he grinned, relishing the sight. "Do you really think you can fight me, little Omega?"

                Four. Five. Six.

                Matt's posture was low, bowed in defense. _Come on_ , he thought, counting—counting. _Come and get me._

                Seven. Eight. Nine.

                "I'm going to enjoy this," said Wolfe, raising his long, straight sword high overhead to cut Matt down.

                Ten.

                Matt dropped the dagger and ducked as a lightning-bolt struck Wolfe, attracted by the metal sword. His body jolted and sizzled and he screamed, stumbling backwards over the edge of the tower, and plummeting down, down, down to his death.

* * *

MATT!"

                Matt had barely lifted his head before he was pulled roughly into Gil's embrace. The Alpha's arms wrapped tightly around him, crushing his Omega-mate to his chest. Matt responded by pressing his face to Gil's neck, nestling in the muscular divot of his collarbone, and hugging him equally tight. _Gil. Oh_ , _gods—Gil._ On his knees at the peak of the tower, soaked and shivering, Matt clutched his Alpha-mate as fear and regret and anger receded into unbelievable relief.

                "Ah, _schatz_."

                Gil's voice was quiet and close. Matt felt his lips.

                "I've never been so scared in my entire life. I thought I'd lost you," he said, pulling back. "Matt, I—"

                Matt didn't let Gil finish. He cupped the back of Gil's head and pulled him into a deep, desperate kiss. It was wet and cold, raindrops sliding over both of their faces, but Matt didn't care. His hands slid to Gil's neck as he covered the Alpha's mouth with his, pressing their lips chastely together. Gil's firm lips tasted a little like blood; so did Matt's, but he didn't care about that either. All he cared about was his Alpha-mate, who was safe. Alive. His Alpha-mate, whom he loved more than anything. His Alpha-mate, who kissed him back just as enthusiastically, opening his mouth and making a chaste kiss less chaste. When they finally parted—both gasping—Gil said:

                " _Wha_ —?

                "Matt, _schatz_ , I thought..." He blinked. "I thought you didn't want to kiss someone you weren't in love with?"

                His red eyes were so big and bright and luminous in the breaking light of dawn. No longer bloodthirsty, they looked—soft.

                Matt smiled and took Gil's hands, and he simply said: "I didn't."

                Gil stared at him, soaked and wide-eyed and slack-jawed, and Matt felt a bubble of laughter swell inside of him. _He's perfect_ , he thought. _I never could've hoped for better._

                "I'm in love with you, Gilbert," he confessed, smiling; he couldn't seem to stop. "I love you."

                Gil squeezed his hands. "I love you, too, Matthew."

                Gil kissed him again—once, twice. A bit clumsy, and very wet. They smiled and they laughed, both suddenly a little shaky and shy; both a little overwhelmed. Gil's nose brushed Matt's and Matt closed his eyes for a brief moment, wanting to forget everything except for Gil's touch. Until the Alpha said:

                "Is it really... true?"

                Matt looked up at him and saw fear and apprehension and hope on Gil's flushed face, and he knew exactly what the Alpha was asking.

                "Yes," he admitted, "it's true."

                "You're... pregnant?"

                Matt nodded.

                "With my—?"

                Again, Matt nodded. "Is that... okay?" he asked timidly.

                He hadn't realized how scared he was to tell Gil, how afraid of the life-changing confession, until Gil's face broke into a big, baffled smile.

                "Is it—?" He laughed and scooped Matt into his arms as he stood and spun in celebratory circles. "Yes, that's okay! Since the moment I met you, _schatz_ , you've made me the happiest Alpha in the whole fucking world! And it just keeps getting better! A pup! _Our_ pup!" Giddily, he kissed Matt's cheek and neck; he nuzzled Matt's neck, hugging him.

                Matt laughed, too. _So_ , _so happy._ "Careful, _Captain_ ," he teased. Gently, he pushed back the Alpha's drenched hair. It gleamed when lightning struck. "They'll all think you've gone soft."

                Gil smiled at his Omega-mate, and his voice was tender but serious when he said: "Too, late."

                Matt blushed.

                "Gil," he said when Gil set him on his feet. He looked adoringly upon the handsome face of his Alpha-mate, his white knight, and reached up and kissed him again. And again, he said: "I love you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intended this chapter to encompass the entire climax, but eventually decided to cut it in half. Otherwise it would have been tediously long. Besides, I thought that Gil and Matt's totally cliché kiss-in-the-rain confession was a rather nice place to press pause, no? As always, thank-you so much for your patience and support! I hope you continue to enjoy! :)
> 
> Cheers,  
> Shadowcatxx


	23. Lost Boys – Chapter Fourteen

**BLACK FOREST FORT**

**WESTERN EMPIRE**

Gil took Matt's hand and together they dashed back into the keep, down, down, down the stairs. The courtyard was flooded with Alphas in black-and-white tunics, carrying long, straight swords of the lightning-rod variety, and all wearing identical expressions of fear. Gil saw wide eyes and upturned lips and tightly clenched fists. He saw his Alphas standing shoulder-to-shoulder in a defensive formation that he had taught them—so, so few of them. If the Eastern Army or Southern Army broke through the gate and inner-wall, the fort was as good as lost; his comrades, his brothers as good as dead.

                _I did this_. _I should've abandoned the fort months ago_ , he finally admitted, pulling Matt close. He hugged his Omega-mate one-handed with his right, clutching Ludwig's sword in his left. _We're all going to die because of me_.

                He spotted Ludwig's cape as he disappeared into the war-room and hurried to follow, dragging Matt along with him. Several of the officers were shocked by the ex-captain's arrival, and a few stared in hesitant disapproval of Matt's presence, but Gil ignored them. Omegas were forbidden from entering the war-room, just as Omegas were forbidden from entering the fort, but there was no way Gil was letting Matt out of sight—out of his reach—again. Like a gale, he burst into the crowded chamber with purpose and pierced the occupants with his fierce red gaze.

                " _Gil_!" Ludwig called. He was the only Alpha present who looked relieved to see Matt. He pushed forward and clapped his brother's shoulder.

                "Gilbert Beilschmidt," said Lutz. The Black Guard's tone was reproachful, though his look was not. Reinbeck stood beside him, eyes plastered bashfully to Matt's body. (Gil noticed this with a frown.) The Omega's soaked clothes clung to the swell of his curves. "Where is Second-Lieutenant Wolfe?" Lutz enquired.

                Gil's face was stony. "Haven't seen him."

                Lutz pursed his lips, but didn't pry.

                Ludwig gestured to a map on the table and resumed the discussion: "If we deploy the garrison to the east—"

                "We can't deploy to the east, it's crawling with Southerners!" someone argued.

                "We could charge the gate, force the enemy into a narrower space to attack, have the archers cover from—"

                "The archers don't have any arrows!"

                "The west bank then! Deploy to the west—"

                "The west bank is too close to the Rhine!"

                "Well, what the fuck are we supposed to do then? We're trapped!"

                Gil closed his eyes and pictured the map in his mind, trying to concentrate as the officers argued fervently back-and-forth.

                _Focus_ , _Gil. How do you solve this_? _Think of how you can solve this_. _We can't attack from the east_ , _because the Southerners have erected a temporary stronghold. We can't overtake their encampment. We can't attack from the south_ , _because it's a battlefield of Southerners and Easterners. We're too few to fight in hand-to-hand battle. We can't attack from the west_ , _because_ —

                "—the river," said Matt.

                _We can't charge ahead_. _We may have the initial advantage_ , _but_ _eventually we'd be overrun. There's just too many of them_ , _and we'd be fighting battles on two fronts._

"— _the river_ ," Matt repeated.

                _We can't rely on re-enforcements_ , Gil thought in defeat. _We have to abandon the fort. It's our only option_ —

                "THE RIVER!" Matt yelled. His outburst cut through the loud, aggressive Alpha voices, silencing them all in shock.

                Gil's eyes snapped open. He looked down at his Omega-mate, who pulled away from him and regarded the war-room of Alphas in very maternal, very Omega-like disdain.

                "I'm sorry," he began, "but you're all acting like selfish pups. You're not listening to each other," he chastised to the bewilderment of everyone. "Stop competing. Stop talking over each other and work together. You're acting like rivals, but you're not, you're brothers and this is your house. Unity is your ally. Hope is your ally. You're all officers of the Western Empire, your units are depending on you, looking to you for guidance. You need to stop howling at each other and start working _together_ ," he emphasized, eyeing the crowd. " You're soldiers of the Western Empire. You're the first line of defense against the enemy. Westerners are not afraid, they're strong."

                " _Yes_!" chorused the Alphas in reflex.

                "They're brave," Matt added. (He had seen Gil do this a dozen times.)

                " _Yes_!"

                "They're proud!"

                " _Yes_!"

                "Westerners do not back down!" Gil yelled, thrusting his fist passionately into the air. His comrades followed with a chorus of : " _Yes_ , _sir_!" in perfect union.

                Gil felt the atmosphere change as the Alphas swelled with pride and duty. They stood straighter, taller for the benefit of the Omega present; ashamed that they had showed weakness in front of him. Gil knew this because he felt it, too. He lifted his head high and stepped into the middle of the war-room, where a circle had formed around Matt, the Alphas rallying to him as if _he_ was their symbol of hope. It felt good to have his Alphas' trust and attention back. It felt familiar, and he felt inspired by Matt as he wrapped an arm around his Omega-mate. But before he could speak, Matt battered him impatiently away.

                "Now, _listen_ to me," he ordered.

                "If you re-position the catapults at the western wall, will the range reach the river? Will it reach the dam? It's been raining for four days. The Rhine is swollen, that dam is ready to burst. I saw it from the top of the keep."

                "The dam that brings water to the fort?"

                "Yes, exactly," Matt said. "Move the catapults to the western ramparts and break the dam, release the Rhine, and flood the battlefield."

                Gil's eyes widened; his mouth fell open. _The river_?

                "Matthew, that's... _brilliant_!" he howled in excitement. In front of everyone, he took Matt's face in his hands and kissed him. "Oh, you beautiful little genius! The fucking river!"

                "But will it work?" Ludwig doubted. "The Southern and Eastern Armies are strong. Will the river be enough to defeat them?"

                "Yes," Matt replied, blushing now. "Trust me, it'll work. You can all try fight each other until the end of days, but none of you can fight Mother Nature. When that dam breaks, those Alphas won't know what hit them."

                Matt look up at Gil. Gil grinned a wicked grin.

                "Do it," he said.

* * *

Gil."

                As the officers dispersed, hurrying to put Matt's plan into action, Ludwig hung back. His posture was straight and tense, but, for once, his expression was not. The lines in his face softened as he regarded his brother, looking from Gil to Matt and back, and he smiled. Matt thought he looked rather young and handsome when he smiled; finally, he looked his age—only eighteen-years-old.

                "Brothers," he said simply, "you need to go."

                Matt thought Gil would argue, but he didn't.

                "I know," he nodded. "I know that being an Alpha-mate shouldn't be my priority, but it is." He shrugged. "I don't think I'm fit to be Fort Commander anymore, Lud. But you'll make a great one. You'll be better than I ever was. Stay strong, little brother," he said, opening his arms to Ludwig. Matt stepped back to let them embrace. He watched Ludwig's brow crease and his mouth tense as he clutched Gil, burying his smaller older brother in his muscular bulk. They held each other for a moment, then simultaneously slapped each other's backs, Alpha-like. "We'll meet again, Lud," Gil said as Matt stepped forward to give Ludwig a kiss on the cheek. "When this is all over, I expect you to come find us. I expect you to come meet your nephew, _Uncle Luddy_."

                Ludwig snorted, and it dislodged a tear that rolled down his cheek. He swallowed and nodded. "Vater would have been proud of you, Gil. I'm proud of you."

                Gil paused, taken aback. Then he smiled and inclined his head in gratitude as he returned Ludwig's sword.

                "Scott Kirkland's pack," Matt said gently. "That's where you'll find us. In the north-east territory on the Isles. We're going somewhere the Continent's laws mean nothing." He looked up at Gil and smiled. "Kirkland," he repeated, "that's my surname."

                Ludwig frowned. So did Gil. "Not Bonnefoi—?"

                "No." He thought of his home, his family. He thought of his Papa's last words to him: _You've got too much of that wild Kirkland fire in you not to be._ "I've always been a Kirkland.

                "Can you remember that?" he teased Ludwig. "Repeat it back to me."

                Ludwig regarded his brother-by-mating-law with a bemused smile. "Scott Kirkland's pack, in the north-east territory on the Isles."

                Matt nodded.

                "Protect the Empire," Gil said, punching Ludwig's chest.

                Ludwig parroted the act. "Protect your family."

                Then Gil took Matt's hand—squeezed Matt's ringed hand—and they left.

                Gil led Matt to a storeroom and ducked inside. He reappeared a moment later carrying two satchels, one a lot larger than the other. Matt had seen the scouting parties often enough to know that the satchels were full of travel supplies. He accepted the smaller one from Gil—soft and lumpy, full of clothes—and slung it over his shoulder, then followed Gil next-door to the armoury, where he grabbed several knives and an axe. Matt watched him pack the tools into his satchel like an expert, so focused on his task that his expression suggested distraction. Just before they left the armoury, Matt placed a hand on Gil's shoulder to stop him.

                "This isn't running away, Gil," he said, in case there was doubt in the ex-captain. In truth, he was concerned for his Alpha-mate's conscience. Gil had been single-mindedly devoted to protecting the Western Empire his entire life. Duty and loyalty had been bred into him. Matt worried that he would feel cowardly for leaving the fort and all of his Alphas to face the enemy alone; for forsaking his Alpha-father's legacy.

                But he didn't.

                To Matt's surprise, Gil leant down and pressed a kiss to his temple. He pressed his hand to his Omega-mate's belly. And he said: "I know.

                "I just hope my Alphas don't hate me," he added regretfully.

                Matt smiled. "They won't," he said confidently. And he pointed.

                By then, Gil and Matt had reached the wooden platform that overlooked the courtyard, the place Gil had first introduced the fort to Matt. Back then, the Alphas had been cold and stony and had made the young Omega nervous. Now, he looked upon their tired faces and saw renewed hope. He saw Gil's brothers-in-arms stop whatever they were doing, stand straight and tall, heels together, and chins held high as they awaited their captain's orders. Gil stopped in blatant shock. From left-to-right, from the courtyard to the ramparts, to the towers and back, the entirety of the Black Forest Fort moved as one and saluted ex-Captain Gilbert Beilschmidt.

                Matt heard Gil's deep intake of breathe and saw a small smile of disbelief curl his lips. It was gone fast, but it remained in the sound of his voice:

                " _Brothers_!" he called, loud and strong. " _It's a great honour to have served beside such exemplary Alphas. You are the blood and bone of the Western Empire_ , _and I am proud to have been your Commander. This is my final order_ ," he announced. The soldiers stiffened, standing at-attention. " _Your loyalty means a great deal to me_ , _but I ask you now to give it to Commander Ludwig Beilschmidt. Serve him as you've always served me. Serve him better. Protect the Black Forest Fort_!" he yelled. " _Protect your brothers and sisters_! _Protect the Empire_!"

                Matt had never heard such a deafening:

                " _YES_ , _SIR_!"

                Matt dipped a curtsey to the Alphas, who bowed their heads to him as Gil pulled him down the steps. Quickly they crossed the courtyard and descended the narrow walkway toward the kitchen's underground entrance. Before they reached it, however, they were stopped by the Black Guards, who blocked their path. Neither Lutz or Reinbeck looked receptive, dressed from head-to-toe in coal-black, looking like Reapers. Gil's body tensed, readying for a fight. He stepped in front of Matt and growled low in warning, but just as he opened his mouth to speak, Lutz beat him to it.

                "It's such a shame about Captain Beilschmidt." He spoke to Reinbeck but he was looking directly at Gil. They both were. "A shame he drowned in the flood."

                "Oh, yes," Reinbeck played along, unable to hide an impish grin. "He and his Omega-mate, both. A tragedy, especially after they saved the fort. Captain Beilschmidt sacrificed himself to protect the Empire, just like his Alpha-father before him. And Matthew Bonnefoi—Omega-pup of Francis Bonnefoi—died fighting the tyranny of the South. I wonder if his story will rekindle the hope of French separatists. I've never met such a brave Omega."

                "Nor I," Lutz agreed. "The West will not forget this day. Gilbert Beilschmidt and Matthew Bonnefoi will be remembered for always as heroes of the Western Empire."

                Finally, Lutz smiled. He cast back his long black cloak to reveal Gil's sword, which he wordlessly presented to the ex-captain, like a sovereign to a knight. Then, in union, the two Great House representatives stepped aside.

                Gil looked incredulous for a moment, then he smiled. "Thank-you," he said sincerely.

                As they passed between the Black Guards, Matt heard Lutz whisper: " _Good luck_ , _Captain_." Then he and his younger partner sauntered off in the opposite direction, teasing the turn-of-events:

                "Oh, however will we tell the Kaiser?"

* * *

Gil yanked back the large potato crate in the kitchen's cellar. It was dusty. Matt sneezed. A low, pitch-black dirt tunnel stretched out in front of them. The darkness gobbled up what little light filtered in and a coolness clung to the earthen walls. Matt clutched the leather strap of his satchel and looked up at Gil—

                —and was surprised to find the Alpha looking pale.

                "Don't be scared, _schatz_ ," he said to Matt.

                Matt frowned. "I'm an Omega, Gil. I'm not afraid of small, dark spaces," he said, taking Gil's hand.

                Gil nodded and squeezed Matt's hand—hard. "Good," he said, forcing a rueful smile. "That makes one of us, then."

                Matt crawled into the tunnel first. It felt no different to him than the burrows he and Al used to root through as young pups. Yes, it was longer— _much_ longer—but it was a soft and yielding darkness that comforted him. Unlike the open spaces above, the secret quietness of the underground protected them. It held a promise. It was the first step on their journey home, and that fact more than anything fuelled Matt's courage. On his hands-and-knees he crawled forward, eager to reach the next step, and then the next; eager to reach his family and his home.

                Gil, however, was not as eager to let the darkness swallow him, and it wasn't long before the Alpha stopped.

                " _Matt_ ," he gasped.

                Matt turned back, twisting his body around in the narrow space. He couldn't see Gil, it was too dark, but he could smell him and he could hear him. He could hear the deep, shaking breaths of someone breathing in through his mouth.

                "It's alright, darling, I'm here," he said, closing the gap between them. He groped for Gil's body and placed both hands on the Alpha's arched shoulders. His head was bowed. "It's okay," Matt's soft voice soothed. "Just breathe, Gil. I'm right here in front of you."

                "Yeah, good." Gil's voice was breathless.

                "Come on, darling. I know Alphas don't like to feel confined or trapped, but we're not. This is our escape, Gil. Do you know what lies at the end of this tunnel? Freedom. We've got to keep going forward. One step at a time, love," he coaxed, taking Gil's hand.

                Slowly, Gil followed.

                "You know what?" Matt talked to calm Gil's nerves. "My Alpha-father is claustrophobic, too."

                "Really? Francis Bonnefoi—?"

                "Yes. He doesn't like small spaces either.

                "Papa is the second-in-command of our pack," he continued, urging Gil onward, "and he has to visit the Clan Leader every season. There's a mountain-range that lies between our pack and the high-road. The fastest way across the mountain is through it. It's a long and narrow passage below the mountain, and very dark. Papa hates it and won't go through it alone. He takes the long way around, adding hours to his journey because he's afraid of the mountain tunnel. But when my Omega-father is with him, he holds Papa's hand and they walk through it together, and Papa's not afraid because he knows he's not alone. He knows his Omega-mate is there with him, just like I'm here with you, Gil. I'm not going anywhere, darling, I promise. We're going to get through this together," he said, and he didn't just mean the tunnel. "When we reach the other side"— _the other side of the Channel_ —"we'll be free to be together with no laws standing in the way. It'll just be you and I and our pup. I'll be there with you," he promised. "I'll take care of you. I'll always be there to hold your hand. Don't think about what's behind us, Gil. Think about what's ahead."

                In the dark, three small, quiet words reached Matt's ears. Gil said:

                " _I love you_."

* * *

Ludwig stood atop the ramparts of the Black Forest Fort—Gil's fort— _his_ fort, now. His fists were clenched at his sides and his expression was reticent as he thought of his brother and brother-by-mating-law, and admitted—reluctantly, privately—that he had been wrong about Matt. Matt hadn't broken Gil; he had saved him. He had given Gil a reason to live, not for the job, or the Empire, but for himself. He had given Gil something to love that would—and _did_ —love him back. _Finally_. Ludwig smiled (on the inside) and looked to the endless Black Forest and the long journey ahead of his brother, hoping that he and his pregnant Omega-mate would make it; knowing that they would. Ludwig had spent years playing secret caretaker to Gil, always keeping one eye on his proud, impulsive, self-destructive older brother. (" _Gil_ , _you need to eat._ " " _Gil_ , _you need to sleep._ " " _Gil_ , _you need to bathe._ " " _Gil_ , _you need stitches._ " " _Gil_ , _you're in the infirmary. I told you_ , _you needed stitches_." " _Gil_ , _you need to slow down._ " " _Gil_ , _you can't do it all alone._ ") Ludwig had always worried about Gil's future—or, lack thereof—so sure that he was going to sacrifice himself for something that meant more to him than he did to it; so sure that Gil was going to be nothing but a name on a memorial roster by the time he was twenty-five, sometimes wondering if that's what Gil really wanted. He had always been afraid of losing Gil. But not anymore.

                _Take my brother far away from here_ , he thought to Matt. _Take good care of him. Protect him. Love him._ _He needs you_ , _Matthew. Make him happy. He deserves to be happy_.

                Ludwig was not a romantic, but seeing Gil and Matt together quieted his skepticism and made him believe in the old proverb: _Beside every successful Alpha_ , _there's a devoted Omega._

                As he turned his attention westward, he briefly wondered if he would ever have an Omega-mate who loved him as much as Matt loved Gil. It was a nice thought.

                "Commander!" saluted his lieutenant. "The catapults are in position. On your order, sir."

                Ludwig looked from the battlefield to the river and grinned as he raised his arm. _Thank-you_ , _Gil_ , _Matt_. _Good luck_. In a slicing motion, he thrust his hand forward, giving the order:

                " _Break it down_!"

* * *

Al heard a crash, then a rumble. He lifted his head and his pupils shrank in fear and disbelief as an unutterable horror seized him.

                He said: " _Ivan_ —"

                And then they were running.

                Even though Al knew it was hopeless; even though he knew they couldn't outrun the frothing torrent that crashed toward them, swallowing everything in its merciless path, he ran. He took Ivan's hand and he ran as fast as he could, pulling the lumbering Alpha into the forest. _Faster_! _Faster_! But he knew it wasn't fast enough. Behind him, he could hear the surprised cries and frightened howls of Alphas as the Rhine swept them all away. In front of him, the forest fled. Animals, soldiers—everyone ran from the fury of Mother Nature.

                _Not again_! _Oh gods_ , _not again_!

                " _Ivan_!"  

                " _Alfred_ , _brace yourself_!"

                Al's feet were violently swept out from under him and he nose-dived forward, the water carrying him off. He felt Ivan's hand slipping through his fingers and instantly thought of Matt. Two months ago Al let go of Matt's hand in the flood and lost him, maybe for good. Two months ago he had been afraid to die alone. _No_ , _no_ , _no_. _I'm not going to die. I'm not going to lose Ivan. Ivan_ —! Al wouldn't let it happen again. He clawed at the Alpha's hand as they were dragged and thrown from side-to-side, determined not to let go, but his grasp was slipping, slipping, slipping...

                Ivan's hand was yanked free of Al's and Al felt panic seize him. _No_ , _please_ —! _Not again_!

                Then Ivan's hand landed on his lower-back and Al felt the Alpha's strong arm wrap around his waist, pulling the Omega against his body. Instinctively, Al looped his arms around Ivan's neck and clung on tightly. He could feel the Alpha's powerful body fighting the current, his limbs pumping—digging—sideways. Al was barely aware of which direction was up as he let Ivan pull him, then push him up onto a floating wooden platform. The Omega gasped and coughed as he crawled up onto it, feeling heavy and drenched. "I-I-I—Ivan," he stuttered, swiping for the Alpha.

                "It's alright, I'm here," Ivan gasped. He started to climb up behind Al, but the platform—what was left of the battering-ram—teetered and nearly flipped, so he let go. Instead, he held onto the side and let himself be carried along in the current. Al held tight to his chained wrists to steady him. As they sailed helplessly along on their makeshift raft, Al saw less fortunate Alphas flailing and drowning and a whimper escaped him. "It's going to be okay," Ivan said to Al, "just hold on. Just look at me, Alfred. It's okay. Soon the river is going to— _Oh_ , _fuck_!"

                Al saw what Ivan saw and shrieked. Alphas were being battered, their tough bodies broken on jagged rocks and trees. One had been skewered by a shattered tree branch, his corpse rocking in the current; another hit a rock and a spray of red coated the surface before washing away. The Rhine had turned the Black Forest into a field of rapids.

                _Oh my God_ , _we're going to die_! _We're going to die_!

                "AH!"

                The raft jolted suddenly when someone grabbed it. Unbalanced, Al tumbled forward, head-first into groping hands. Strong, desperate hands that tugged him forcefully downward. An Alpha was flailing madly, trying to use Al as leverage to pull himself to safety. Al fought his assailant, whining and panicking as he struggled to stay afloat.

                " _No_ , _no_ , _please_!" cried the Alpha. He swallowed a mouthful of water and coughed, briefly submerging before he popped back up. It was then that Al recognized him: Captain Le Roux.

                " _Get off_! _Get off of me_!" Al cried as his body pitched forward. Ivan seized the back of his shirt to prevent him falling, but Le Roux didn't let go. He growled and grabbed, and Al felt the fabric of his weathered shirt begin to tear. He was going to fall, and the rapids were getting closer, closer—

                SMASH!

                The raft hit a tree trunk and Le Roux screamed in pain. Al took advantage of it and pulled himself free.

                " _Omega_!" snarled the Southerner. His eyes and teeth gleamed angrily—scared. " _Help_! _Please help me_!"

                Al's heart pounded, but he didn't move. He saw Le Roux slipping, ready to fall, but he didn't move. Maybe he should have tried to save the Alpha; maybe that was the right thing to do; maybe that's what Matt would have done in the same situation, but Al was not Matt. Al would never be Matt. Al didn't want to be Matt. So instead of reaching out to help the army captain who had tormented him and tortured his future Alpha-mate, who had taken pleasure in their suffering, he simply watched as Le Roux's body slammed into the rocks and shattered. Nothing but a strangled howl escaped him as he slipped helplessly off the raft and sunk beneath the frothing water.

                " _Alfred_!"

                Only then did Al realize the raft was no longer moving; rather, it seemed to be tethered in place as the river swept by. Ivan's teeth were clenched and his arms were strained, one holding onto the raft, the other wound around a thick tree branch. " _Up_!" the Alpha gasped, indicating the treetops.

                Al obeyed without hesitance. Carefully—clumsily—he angled his body toward the tree and leapt, grabbing for the branch hanging low over Ivan's pale head. He scrambled quickly onto it and hooked his legs expertly around the branch's girth, then reached down to assist the half-submerged Alpha. "Give me your hand!" he demanded, fighting a tug-o-war with the river in which Ivan was the prize. _Oh Gods_ , _he's heavy_! Al heaved and Ivan hauled himself up and eventually they made it into the higher branches, safe from the danger. Side-by-side, they sat and surveyed the wreck of what had been forest turned battlefield turned flood.

                _I'm never going swimming again as long as I live_! Al thought resentfully—fearfully. He didn't realize he was shaking until Ivan's arms drew him closer.

                "It's okay, little one, you're safe."

                Al didn't realize he was crying either, until the Alpha wiped his cheeks.

                "It's okay," he repeated in his deep, soothing voice. "I'm here."

                _Yes_ , _Ivan's here. Just like before. Just like the first time the river tried me kill me_ , _he's here._ _He's still here._

                Al snuggled close to Ivan and buried his face. He didn't want to see the damage. He wished he couldn't hear the screams of Alphas who cried like pups. When the river stilled, the field would stain it red. It would drink the fluids of the fallen and pool in the low-ground like a moat of blood around the Black Forest Fort, the rotting dead left to sustain the forest while spreading disease to those lucky to be alive. Somewhere beneath the surface, Sasha's corpse would lay forgotten until there wasn't enough left to be anything but fish food.

                Al closed his eyes, and said: "Tell me when it's over."

                Ivan's arms tightened protectively around him. "Yes."

* * *

It was nearly sunrise when Ivan shifted. "Come," he said simply, and lumbered down into the watery wreckage of the Southerner's encampment. Al followed, letting himself carefully down into the Alpha's outstretched arms. The water was running slower now. It was opaque, which made Al squirm nervously, disgusted by what his feet might step on beneath the surface. It was unevenly distributed throughout the forest. In some places Al could walk, wading through at waist-height; in other places he had to swim, submerged to the neck as he paddled to higher-ground and flinching every time his body came into contact with anything... squishy.

                _What happened_? he wondered, treading lightly. _Where did all of this water come from_?

                "The Westerners," Ivan said when asked. He pointed over-the-shoulder toward the fort. "I told you they were dangerous. I told you they were ruthless," he spat.

                _Dangerous_ , _maybe_ , Al thought. _Ingenious_ , _definitely_. He had experienced the cunning tricks of the Southern Army and the fearless power of the Eastern Army, but though the fort looked strong, he had not expected the Western Alphas to survive the seize. If any of the three armies were going to succumb to the enemy, he expected it to be the under-populated, under-equipped soldiers of the Black Forest Fort. In fact, he had been so certain of the South or East's victory that a part of him had given up hope of ever seeing Matt again. The fort would fall and Matt would fall with it. Except, it hadn't. As Al hiked through the mess of the forest, he could see the towers of the Black Forest Fort in the distance, still standing strong—the _only_ thing still standing.

                "Mattie," he whispered.

                Ivan's face was kind, but his voice was stern. "No, Alfred. I'm sorry, but no."

                "But Ivan," said Al weakly, "Mattie might still be alive."

                "He might be," Ivan acknowledged, "but even if he is, there's nothing we can do for him. Not as long as he's behind those walls. I know you don't want to hear this, Al, but you've done all you can. You've tried, little one. You've proven your worth time and again. You've won many battles on this journey, but you _must_ accept defeat this time. I will _not_ let you go back there. I said I would search for your brother as long as it didn't put you at risk and I haven't changed my mind. Going back to that fort," he interrupted Al's protest, "is not only impossible, it's suicide. I'm sorry," he repeated sincerely, "but I'm your Alpha-mate, Al, and I'm telling you no. If your brother _is_ alive, he's going to have to save himself."

                "But Mattie's not—"

                "Like you? No. I doubt there's anyone in the world quite like you, Alfred Kirkland. But Matt _is_ your brother, and if he has half the courage and fighting spirit you do, he'll survive. You have to trust him, Al.

                "Trust _me_."

                Reluctantly, Al nodded. He took Ivan's hand and let himself be led away.

* * *

It was only by chance that they met Thierry in the aftermath of the flood. Al was glad to find him alive and unhurt, too far from the fort and battlefield to have encountered all but the last dregs of excitement. He smiled brightly at Thierry, showing his relief, but the Alpha merely stared wanly in reply. He was sitting on a fallen log with his hands clasped in his lap, his tender grey eyes looking down at the ankle-deep mud, and that's when Al realized his mistake. Thierry was a soldier of the Southern Empire. Of course he didn't revel in the defeat and death of his comrades. He was so kind, so non-confrontation that Al doubted he would have rejoiced no matter what the battlefield result had been. In apology, the Omega softened his approach.

                "Captain Le Roux—" Thierry began, then shook his head. "My Alpha-father," he corrected, "is dead. A scout found his body. He drowned."

                Al pinched his lips together and glanced guiltily up at Ivan, but the Alpha silently shook his head. It wouldn't benefit anyone to tell the sensitive Southerner exactly how his Alpha-father had died. Let Thierry believe Le Roux had drowned; it was kinder than the truth. In comradeship, Al sat down on the log beside Thierry and tentatively touched his slight shoulder.

                "I'm not sorry he's dead," he said honestly, "but I _am_ sorry you're sad."

                Thierry turned to look at Al, his grey eyes sad and confused, but soft in understanding. " _Thank-you_ ," he said.

                After an awkward moment, in which Al didn't know what more to say, thinking, perhaps, that he could have phrased his condolences a little better— _Papa would be mortified_ —Thierry stood. He shrugged off his satchel and gave it to Ivan, who accepted it with a nod. "It's not much," he admitted, "but it's more than either of you have now. There's spare clothes... but I'm afraid they won't fit you, Ivan. They'll probably fit you, Alfred. You and I are the same height," he said, a hint of kinship in his tone. A small Alpha and a tall Omega. For the first time, Al didn't feel insulted by the comment; he felt proud to share something with Thierry. "There's soap and a couple of tools and medical supplies," he continued. "There's a little food, but not nearly enough. You'll have to hunt for yourselves. I'm sorry. It's all I can give you." Pause. "You should go now," he said, avoiding eye-contact with either fugitive. "Before someone sees you."

                "Come with us," Al blurted impulsively. He hated to leave his new friend behind, especially since Ivan's old friend was gone. If this adventure had taught Al anything, it was not to harbour prejudices, but instead to cherish the friends he did have, no matter who they were. "Come to the Isles with us," he invited. "What's left for you in the South anyway?"

                "My Omega-father and siblings," Thierry replied. He said it quietly, affectionately. "I guess, with my Alpha-father gone, I'm the head of the family now. I have to take care of them."

                Al smiled. "You're a good Alpha, Thierry. A strong Alpha. Don't let anyone ever tell you differently."

                Finally, Thierry lifted his head and slowly, shyly, returned Al's smile. "I'm glad I met you, Alfred Bonnefoi. I hope you find the happiness you're searching for."

                "Thank-you for everything," Al said formerly, submitting. It wasn't an Omega's curtsy, nor an Alpha's bow. It was an ambiguous gesture that only Al Kirkland could have pulled off, but it showed his respect. Ivan, too, inclined his head a fraction in gratitude. "Maybe someday we'll meet again."

                Thierry nodded and bowed deep. "Gods bless you both."


	24. Lost Boys – Chapter Fifteen

**WESTERN EMPIRE**

**THE BLACK FOREST**

"Wait." Matt stopped beneath a large fir tree, his lips pursed.

                " _Schatz_?" Gil asked in concern. "Are you okay?"

                Matt didn't reply. His eyes were unblinking and his face was glossy white. He pressed a hand firmly to his mouth, fighting the urge to—

                Suddenly, he bent forward and vomited.

                Gil flinched, then moved to assist his Omega-mate. _It's just a symptom of pregnancy_ , he knew, because Matt had told him; because he _may_ have overreacted the first time he had witnessed it, thinking that something was wrong. _It'll pass in a minute_ , _it always does_. But he still hovered anxiously. He pulled Matt's satchel off and dropped it aside, then held back the Omega's long hair as he gagged and gasped. He could feel Matt's body shudder with each purge, as if sucked of strength. Gil held the Omega's shoulders in support, and then drew him back against his chest when the gagging stopped. "Done?" he asked as Matt's body sagged in exhaustion.

                "Yes," Matt croaked, leaning against him. He wiped his face. "Sorry."

                Gil rolled his eyes. "Apologize one more time for carrying my pup and I'll gag you, I swear," he said in mock-threat. Matt smiled coyly up at him, his head pillowed on the Alpha's pectoral. It softened Gil's jest. "It's okay, _schatz_ ," he said, kissing Matt's forehead. "This is my fault, right?"

                Matt laughed softly. "Yes, love." He rested a hand on his abdomen. "All your fault.

                "But I'm the one slowing us down," he added.

                "It's okay, we're not in any hurry."

                Matt cupped Gil's cheek and stroked it affectionately. " _Liar_ ," he whispered.

                Gil merely grinned.

                The truth was, the sooner they reached the Low Countries, the safer they would be. Gil was a wanted fugitive, and though the Black Guards would report him dead to the Kaiser, word of his heroism would take time to spread. Every day that he remained in the Western Empire he risked being recognized and arrested. He wore his hood to hide his memorable looks, and he tried to steer away from settlements along their route, but their slow pace still made him anxious. Matt—bless him—was not accustomed to long, spartan journeys. On the Isles, they only travelled once a year to the Standing Stones, and even that was a trek considerate of Omegas, pups, and elders. It was not the swift, tireless march of a honed soldier. "I'm sorry, love," Matt had said often enough to annoy Gil, even though they both knew the Omega was the one slowing them down.

                Gil hefted Matt to his feet, then took the weight of both satchels. "It is what it is," he shrugged. Then, noting Matt's dismay, added: "I'm hardly going to leave you behind, _schatz_."

                By sunset, they had made little progress. Matt was now seven weeks pregnant and his body was struggling to acclimatize to the change. Or, that was Gil's understanding of it. (He hadn't really understood the technical terms the Omega had used.) It was messy and inconvenient and it made the Alpha pity his poor, exhausted Omega-mate. They had had to stop often, because Matt couldn't keep any food down and walking on an empty stomach made him slow and lightheaded. Gil tried to set a considerate pace, but every time he thought they were making good time, he would look sideways and find Matt pale and panting and quietly suffering as he tried to keep up. He had to keep reminding himself to slow down, otherwise he increased speed without thinking and Matt, of course, didn't complain. He simply followed Gil's lead, begging a halt only when he felt sick enough to vomit. Finally, Gil decided to stop for the evening, because even though he had hours left of walking in him, Matt certainly did not.

                "I'm so sorry, love," Matt said, wobbling on his feet. Gil took his arm and helped him sit on a pelt. "I'm really not feeling well today."

                Gil crouched in front of him. "You sure you're not actually sick?"

                "No, I'm fine. It'll pass," Matt dismissed, looking worn.

                "You should eat something," Gil advised, and began rummaging in a satchel pocket. He produced a parcel of dry, salted venison, which he unwrapped. "Here."

                Matt squeezed his eyes shut, his forehead creased. "No, thanks."

                "Come on, _schatz_ , you need to eat," Gil urged, worried for his weakened Omega-mate.

                "Gil, darling," Matt replied in the same patronizing tone, "if you don't get that away from my face, I'm going to vomit on you."

                Gil lowered the parcel.

                "You're _sure_ you're okay?"

                Matt nodded. "I'm just tired," he said. "I haven't slept much since your arrest."

                "Me, neither," Gil admitted. He stuffed the food parcel back into the satchel, then hunkered down beside the Omega, his back braced against rough-hewn tree bark. "Come here," he said. Matt obeyed and shifted into the circle of Gil's arms. "Cold?" he asked, even as he wrapped his cloak around Matt. Matt didn't reply, already half-asleep. In fact, Gil thought he _was_ asleep until Matt's soft, breathy voice said:

                "Wake me in a couple hours."

                "Just rest, _schatz._ I can—"

                " _Wake me_ ," Matt insisted. "You need sleep, too, love." A longer pause than the first was interrupted by a coy inquiry. "Gil—?" His voice was soft and sleepy. "Are you ever going to tell me what _schatz_ means?"

                Gil chuckled and nuzzled the top of Matt's head. "No, _sweetheart_ , I'm not."

* * *

The next morning, Matt attempted the Herculean task of eating dry, salted meat, but failed as nausea licked the back of his throat.

                "I'm sorry, I—I can't eat this," he said, shoving it aside. "It'll just be a waste."

                Gil dug deeper into the satchel. "Biscuits, then? Think you could stomach a—Okay, okay," he retreated when Matt vehemently shook his head, the back of his hand pressed to his mouth. "Well, damn, Matt," he said in apology, raking a hand through his hair, "that's all we've got. Come on, can't you just _try_ to eat some? It can't be that bad—"

                Matt glared at him.

                Gil sighed.

                "I think I could stomach fish," Matt offered. "It's not as... fragrant."

                "We don't have any salted fish."

                "Not salted fish, fresh fish. You could, maybe, go fishing—?" he asked, turning the suggestion into a question, a hopeful plea in his voice.

                "Fish? That's really what you want? I don't know..." Gil hesitated. "I'd have to go back to the river, and I don't want to leave you alone," he worried.

                "I'll be okay," Matt promised. "It's not far. You'll hear me scream if anything happens," he joked. Gil didn't laugh. He looked uneasily at the Omega, genuinely afraid to let him out of sight (or reach). In appeasement, Matt took the Alpha's hand and kissed it. "I'll stay right here, okay? I won't move from this spot, I promise. It won't be for long, right? I'm sure you're an amazing fisherman, darling," he flattered, his soft lips still pressed to Gil's skin, long lashes fluttering artfully over violet eyes. Gil's smile revealed lazy amusement rather than enchantment. Matt laughed at the failed attempt and bowed his head in surrender. When he lifted it again his expression was sincere. "Please, Gil—?" he asked, throwing himself upon the mercy of his Alpha-mate. "I'm _so_ hungry."

                " _Fine_ ," Gil agreed. He leant forward and pecked Matt's lips. "I'll be right back. _Stay here_."

                "I love you!" Matt chorused guiltily after him.

                Gil grunted, waving a hand over-the-shoulder in reluctant retreat.

* * *

Ivan crept through the forest with purpose. He wasn't quiet or light-footed, but he was an affable hunter nonetheless. "I'll get the food," he had said to Al, having won a game-of-chance for the honour, "you get the firewood." Al had been irked at the result, but had yielded to his less glorified task with nothing louder than a deep, resigned sigh and a sulky " _cheater_ " as he shuffled off. Ivan had laughed. The truth was, he didn't mind doing menial _housekeeping_ tasks, which were no less important. (No firewood equaled no fire equaled no hot food.) But every now and then, he had to admit, it felt good to play a more dominant Alpha-role. It felt good to be needed, and he took pride in hunting to provide for his Omega like a real Alpha-mate.

                _Soon_ , he thought as he dodged a tall fir, winding through a labyrinth of trees. _Soon we'll be mated for real_.

                A fortnight, Al calculated. As long as his body was healthy by then, in a fortnight's time he would once again succumb to a Heat—one Ivan fully intended to be present for this time. He already felt cheated for having missed the last two, each one a fleeting chance to legally claim the Omega he was desperately in love with. If Fate kept them apart again, Ivan truly thought he might die of yearning. Just picturing Al's Heat was enough to excite him: his long, golden body spread languidly, naked skin stretched taut over subtle slopes of muscle; his whole figure flushed from cheeks to navel, and wet with slick from navel to knees; his blue eyes sparkling, hazy with lust; his lips swollen and parted, and whining softly for Ivan's touch. And the scent of him. Oh, gods! Ivan vividly recalled the tangy-sweet scent of Al's body in Heat, so naturally alluring and—

                Ivan's nose twitched. He tipped his head up and breathed in deeply, trying to read a scent that was intimately familiar and yet not. It was an Omega's scent. It was Al's scent—almost.

                _Alfred_ —? he pondered, because who else could it be? The young scent was more alike Al's than anyone else's. Though, as he drew closer, guided by his nose, he realized that it was saturated in a much riper Alpha scent. A strong, healthy Alpha. A Westerner. The evidence of it slapped Ivan rudely in the face and pulled a low, menacing growl from his throat. _Why does my Alfred—but not my Alfred_ — _smell like another Alpha_? _Why does he smell mated_? It didn't make sense. Ivan _knew_ it didn't make sense, and yet he couldn't help the way his body reacted. He felt defensive of the Omega, confused by the subtle difference, but possessive of him nonetheless. The scent was too familiar to ignore, and soon Ivan was tearing through the forest to reach the Omega who was Al but not Al. He leapt a ditch and landed with his teeth bared, expecting the Westerner to be nearby. There were flecks of spittle on his chin, and lines creasing his forehead, and anger in his pale eyes, and the entire image of the huge Eastern ex-soldier with his teeth bared scared a young Omega who was not Al, but rather—

                " _Matthew_!" Ivan gasped.

                He had to be. He couldn't be anyone else. He looked too much like a smaller, softer, paler version of Al not to be the Omega's twin-brother. He smelled like Al (sans the Alpha scent), and he looked exactly as described. He even sounded like Al's description: quiet and timid, though his anxiety might be blamed on the savage Alpha gaping at him.

                Matt's lips were parted, ready to scream, but the sound of his given-name stopped him.

                "Who are y-you?" he asked, trying and failing to sound brave. He clutched a dagger emblazoned with a black cross, which he brandished shakily in one hand, shoulders arched and legs pulled to his chest. His other arm wrapped around his middle, like an Omega protecting an unborn pup—

                _Oh_ , _no_ , Ivan thought, suddenly recognizing the faint scent of pregnancy. He shouldn't be surprised: Matt had been imprisoned in the fort for as long as Al had been safe with Ivan. Of course he hadn't been left untouched. He only hoped that the scared little thing had been claimed as one Alpha's property, and one Alpha only. If Le Roux's gossip proved true and Matt _had_ become the fort's whore... _Al's going to be devastated when he finds out_ , he thought, eyes going regretfully to the Omega's flat middle.

                "How do you know my name?" Matt suddenly demanded.

                " _Matthew_ ," he repeated, struck dumb in disbelief. He had been so sure of the Omega's fate that he had never actually expected to meet him. But here he was, not entirely unharmed but at least he was alive.

                _Al's going to be so relieved_.

                He started forward, intending to collect Matt and deliver him to Al, but a growl made him pause.

                " _Get away from me_!" Matt warned, leaping hurriedly to his feet. His growl—more of an aggressive purr, Ivan thought—did little to intimidate the Alpha, but he paused nonetheless.

                "Oh, I've scared you," he acknowledged. "I didn't mean to scare you. I'm not going to hurt you, Matthew," he said, reaching out. "My name is Ivan. Your brother is my—"

                Ivan didn't get to finish. He was struck from behind so violently that he stumbled and fell, blinking red spots from his vision. He shook his head and pushed himself to his knees, but was forced down again by the blow of a boot-heel. Ivan growled and, before the third attack landed—a strike to the head—he grabbed the Alpha's leg and yanked his feet out from under him. The Westerner flailed, but caught his balance fast. Ivan rounded on him, ready to defend Matt from the danger—for this was the Alpha whose scent Matt carried, not just on him but _in_ him—until he saw the Alpha's eyes, which were as red as his reputation foretold. The blood left the Easterner's face and his eyes narrowed, and, suddenly, all he could think of was protecting Matt from the wicked Western captain who had abducted him. He bared his teeth and roared at the Westerner, rising to his full towering height and drawing his sword.

                _I will not let you lay another hand on this Omega_! he thought self-righteously. _You will not hurt Alfred or his family every again_!

                "Get away from my Omega-mate," growled the Westerner, drawing a long sword, "before I fucking gut you."

                "He's not yours," Ivan denied. He swung his sword in threat. The Westerner's red eyes— _it's true_ , _blood red_ —lit like fire when he recognized an Eastern blade. Ivan advanced. "You will not touch him again!"

                Metal clashed shrilly as the two ex-soldiers came together in a vicious battle. Ivan was much broader, but the Westerner was faster. He dodged Ivan's attacks and then peppered him with ceaseless blows intended to push him backwards, away from the cowering Omega. Vaguely, Ivan could hear the Omega's voice—screaming? begging?—but his brain was foggy with battle-lust and his focus remained on the villain in front of him. He leapt forward and served blows that chased the Westerner back-and-forth until they hit, then knocked him momentarily senseless. Both Alphas snapped their teeth, both trying to sink his canines into the other when their grappling drew them together. They spit and snarled at each other, each yelling insults in a language the other didn't speak; insults that needed no translation. Both were seething in hot anger, steeped in a bred hatred that went a lot deeper than a single Omega's honour.

                Ivan fought as if his life depended on it, because it very likely did. In all of his years as a soldier, he had never faced such a skilled opponent. Unlike Ivan, who had been forced into the army as a reluctant foot-soldier, the Western captain actually _liked_ fighting. Ivan could feel the practice and precision and skill—the wolfish ferocity of him in every blow. For the first time since Ivan was a helpless pup training in the Capital, he was clutched by a blinding fear: _Could I actually—lose_?

                _No_. _I must protect Matthew. I must protect Alfred_ —

                "MATTIE?"

                Ivan tore his gaze from the Westerner and turned in the direction of the baffled shout.

                And there, of course, was Al.

* * *

MATTIE!" Al repeated in reckless abandon.

                He charged through the forest, his feet tripping as he ran, and flung himself full-bodily upon his lost brother.

                " _Oh_ , _thank the gods_!" he gasped, winding his arms around Matt's neck. " _You're alive_! _I can't fucking believe it_! _You're actually alive_!"

                "A-A-Al—?" Matt said in disbelief. Al's weight forced Matt to his knees and he sat frozen for a moment, then seemed to thaw in a rush of emotion.

                " _Oh_ , _gods_! _Al_!"

                Al felt Matt's hands on him as his brother returned the hug. He felt Matt's lips on his face, kissing his cheeks, and then Matt's forehead pressed against his. " _I can't believe it_ ," he whispered, sharing Al's giddy excitement. When Al pulled back to examine Matt's face, there were tears in his violet eyes. Matt, too, searched Al's face for distress and pawed at his body like a concerned parent checking a pup for injury. It felt so familiar to Al that he had to blink happy tears from his eyes, too.

                "I-I-I—I thought you were d-d-dead," Matt confessed, and then he was crying, tears of relief and happiness rolling down his cheeks.

                Al chortled and wiped Matt's face. "I thought you were dead, too," he admitted. "I thought"—he yanked Matt into another crushing hug—"I would never see you again. I've missed you so much, Mattie."

                Matt clutched Al. "I missed you, too. I've felt so lost without you, Al."

                _CLANG_!

                "It's okay now, Mattie," Al said, listening to the metal-on-metal clang of swords, confident of Ivan's victory. He held Matt protectively. "I won't let him hurt you anymore."

                To his utter shock, Matt pushed him off.

                "Who? _Gil_ —?" he said suddenly, eyes going to the fight. "Oh, no! Al, you're mistaken, he's my Alpha-mate!"

                Al scrambled to his feet to follow Matt, who was running recklessly toward the battling Alphas.

                "Gil!" he shouted. "Gil, stop! It's okay, they're— _Ah_!"

                " _Stay back_ , _Matt_!" the red-eyed Alpha ordered, shoving Matt with his body. He took up a defensive position in front of the Omega, who tugged urgently on his tunic.

                " _Gil_!" he tried, but the Westerner wasn't listening.

                Nor was Ivan, whose muscular body curled itself into an attacking posture. He leapt forward, only to stumble clumsily when Al's piercing voice yelled:

                " _STOP_ , _YOU STUPID ALPHAS_!"

                Only then did Gil take notice of Al, the scent of Matt's blood-relative freezing him in place. "Matt?" he asked in confusion.

                Matt's fingers were clenched in Gil's black tunic, ready to yank him back if he tried to attack. "Gil, darling," he said, making eye-contact with the volatile Alpha. He waited, then, clearing his voice of emotion, he waved a hand between Gil and Al as if he was making polite introductions in a dining-hall. "This is my brother, Alfred Kirkland. Al, this is my Alpha-mate, Gilbert Beilschmidt."

                His voice seemed to have a soothing effect on both Alphas, because Ivan lowered his sword. "Alpha-mate?" he questioned suspiciously.

                Al picked-up on Ivan's thread. "But, Mattie, isn't he the one who—who took you? Isn't he the Westerner who, uh..." Al bit his lip.

                "Oh, good," said Gil glibly. "My reputation proceeds me."

                Matt gave the Alpha's arm a consoling pat. "Gil rescued me, Al. He's the only reason I'm alive."

                "But you're pregnant," Ivan blurted.

                Al's eyes went wide. " _Pregnant_?" he gaped, looking from Matt to Gil. " _Son-of-a-bitch_!" he spat at the latter.

                Gil growled and clenched the handle of his sword. Matt placed his hand on Gil's wrist, trying to lower it, but the Alpha fought the restraint.

                "I think," said Matt benevolently, "we should all sit down and have a longer conversation about this. A lot has happened since last we saw each other, Al. I'm mated and pregnant, now— _happily_ mated and pregnant." He smiled in reassurance. "And perhaps you would like to tell us who _this_ is?" he implied Ivan.

                "He's an Eastern deserter," Gil spat—literally.

                Ivan growled.

                Al said: "Oh, right. This is Ivan. He's going to be my Alpha-mate soon."

                He looked from Ivan to Matt to Gil, then sighed.

                "Uh, maybe we _should_ sit down and talk about this." Exuberantly, he clapped his hands. "Who's hungry?"

* * *

Ivan handed Matt a steaming bowl of plain potato porridge. The Omega sniffed at it, then took a small, tentative bite.

                "Oh," he smiled in pleasant surprise, "this is wonderful. Thank-you, this is exactly what I need. Thank-you so much," he repeated, spooning a larger mouthful.

                Ivan nodded in silent _you're welcome_ , then retreated. Beside Matt, his arm wrapped protectively around the Omega, Gil glared suspiciously—and sulkily—at the Easterner. His red eyes followed Ivan's movements as he tidied the cooking, jealous that the Easterner seemed to do a better job taking care of _his_ Omega-mate than he did. He knew Matt could hear him growl, could probably feel it, too, but he was too preoccupied sating hunger to sooth the Alpha's pride. Besides, Matt was too polite to speak with food in his mouth—not that his twin-brother abided by that courtesy.

                "This is surreal!" Al said, chewing enthusiastically. "Mattie, I can't believe we've been so close to each other this whole time!"

                Alfred Kirkland was alike Matt and yet as _un_ alike Matt as any Omega could possibly be, Gil thought. He was bigger, bolder, and brighter than Matt—quite pretty, really—but there was an arrogance in him that Gil didn't trust. The more he observed the flamboyant Omega, the more he recognized the self-satisfied armour of someone who wasn't entirely happy with himself. Someone who hid behind smiles and jokes to counteract how uncomfortable he felt. How displaced. Someone who was always on the outside, even when he was the centre-of attention. Gil knew this about Al without asking, because it was how he had always felt, too.

                He hadn't lied to Matt about his childhood: it _had_ been happy, it just hadn't always been inclusive. Being the General's Alpha-pup had been hard enough, carrying the weight of everyone's expectations— _be this_ , _be that_ , _you're an example_ , _Gilbert_ —and Gil's abnormal appearance hadn't helped. Like Al, he had learnt to wear his insecurities like armour to protect himself, but the uncensored opinions of pups were always harsher than the dodged stares of adults, and Gil's childhood had been riddled with bullying flavoured friendship. In retrospect, it was why he had tried so hard to distinguish himself, to be better at everything than everyone. But the harder he worked, the more he succeeded, the more he distanced himself from everyone else, and soon young Gilbert Beilschmidt had become an outlier of his own invention. He kept working and training and studying, learning how to be the best, pushing himself tirelessly through each promotion until he had become the youngest Fort Commander in history. He had done it for his Alpha-father ( _if he could see me now_ , _would he be proud of me_?), and for the Empire ( _protect the Empire_!). But pride and admiration was not the same as a feeling of belonging, and despite his comrades' respect and devotion, Gil knew they were not his equals. They would never be his equals. And he would never be theirs. The distance he had felt in childhood merely transformed into the loneliness of leadership—until he had met Matt. Matt had bridged the gap Gil felt but couldn't understand, because he was the only person allowed to see Gil without the titles and honours and responsibilities. The only one allowed to see Gil rage and cry and lust and fear. The only one allowed to see an ordinary Alpha, glories and mistakes aside. Not Captain Beilschmidt, not the Fort Commander, not traitor or hero—just Gil. Matt's mere presence had healed Gil of a loneliness he hadn't been consciously aware of and replaced it with a love he hadn't known was possible.

                Gil wondered if Al felt the same way about the Easterner. The Omega was so dreamy-eyed over the Alpha, it didn't take a scholar to read the love and admiration in his eyes. Or the hunger. Gil saw in Al the same reckless thirst to prove himself that he, himself, had felt until recently. Matt had told Gil lots about Al in the past couple of months—he loved his brother _very_ much—enough for Gil to know that Al had never really belonged either. Matt hadn't said it, of course. But then, Matt probably didn't understand the depth of Al's loneliness, especially if Al always faked a smile for Matt's benefit, like Gil always had for Ludwig. Even before meeting Al, Gil had a picture of the Omega in his mind; one not so very different from the truth. Or rather, the lie. Al's was an untrustworthy act, and looking across the small cook-fire to where he sat now, Gil didn't trust his friendly smile and casual conversation. What he _did_ trust was the nervous relief in Al's voice, the weary tension in his muscles, the constant, self-conscious shifting of his posture, and the determination in his blue eyes.

                _Alfred Kirkland_ , he thought in approval, feeling a kinship with the Omega like he had never felt with anyone before. _My new little brother_.

                Al swallowed the last of his meal, then shuffled over to sit beside Matt. Matt shifted his weight beneath Gil's arm, moving closer to his brother until their sides touched, their body's angled toward each other. Al's hand rested on Matt's back—ignorantly brushing Gil's—and Matt bowed his head to Al's as they talked, the soft, glad sounds of their voices pleasing to the Alpha's ear. Though Matt's body was pressed between Al's and his, Gil felt rather invisible as the two Omegas regaled each other with stories, recalling each of their individual adventures. They gasped and sighed and smiled and laughed, and Gil found himself feeling uncharacteristically indulgent, unbothered by the proximity as the brothers sat curled together like kittens. Omegas, it seemed, liked to cuddle with each other. _A comfort and safety precaution_ , he guessed. (An Omega's sphere was domestic and most spent more time with each other than with their Alpha-mates. Though, _domestic_ wasn't a word Gil would have used to describe Alfred Kirkland.) The old un-mated Captain Beilschmidt would have found the Omegas' chatter and whimpers and giggles annoying, but Matt's softened Alpha-mate found himself feeling relaxed as night descended. He felt the pleasant calm of domesticity settle over him like a big heavy blanket, and he realized that he liked having the Omegas by his side. He had been living with Alphas for so long that he was surprised by how much he liked the peace and quiet of the softer sex.

                He did not, however, like Ivan.

                "I don't trust him," he told Matt later, as they settled down to sleep. He had lost a game of chance for the first watch shift. (He was certain Ivan had cheated, and Al was quick to agree.) "He's a deserter," he scoffed.

                "Gil," Matt said as gently as possible, "so are you. And just like you, I'm sure he had a good reason. It doesn't make him a villain."

                Gil scoffed.

                "Al trusts him," Matt said, matter-of-fact, "so I do, too. And you trust me, don't you?"

                "Of course I do, _schatz_. It's _him_ I don't trust."

                "Let go of the prejudice," Matt advised, rubbing Gil's shoulders. "Ivan's a good Alpha. Al wouldn't love him if he wasn't."

                "I think you put too much faith in your brother."

                "Wouldn't you put faith in yours?"

                Gil opened his mouth to argue, then closed it into tight-lipped surrender. "Touché," he grinned ruefully. "But I think you're a lot more like Ludwig than Al is."

                "And you're a lot more like Al than I am," Matt parried, settling down beneath the weight of Gil's arm.

                Gil rolled his eyes. "I expect I'm just jealous of him then, the Easterner," he said, squeezing Matt in example.

                "Oh, I don't mind," Matt admitted, smiling coyly. "Papa used to say that envy is like salt: A little bit enhances the flavour, but too much spoils the meal."

                Gil snorted. "Francis Bonnefoi sounds like a cad. And, you know, the more you tell me about him, the more I want to meet him. Do you think he'll hate me very much?"

                "Oh, yes," Matt teased. "You're the mean old Alpha who deflowered his pup."

                Gil scowled. " _Old_?"

                "Well," Matt shrugged in mock-innocence; he patted Gil's chest, "you _are_ twenty-years-old."

                "Twenty-one."

                That took Matt off-guard. He had been slumped comfortably against Gil, but now he sat up to better see the Alpha's face. "You were twenty when we met."

                "Mm hmm," Gil nodded. "And now I'm twenty-one. My birthday was last month."

                "What? Why didn't you tell me?" Matt worried. "I would've done something nice for you."

                "Oh, you did." Gil grinned. He couldn't help it, Matt's innocent confusion was adorable. "You were in Heat."

                The Omega's violet eyes widened, then his brow furrowed. "Not... the first day..."

                "No," Gil hurried, putting that unhappy incident out-of-mind. "It was the day after."

                "The day after," Matt repeated, remembering it. Gil watched his expression melt into disbelief. "So, we spent your entire twenty-first birthday mating and you didn't even tell me?"

                Gil laughed. "For the record, best birthday ever."

                Matt lightly punched his chest, laughing as well. "I think you're the cad, Gil. You should've told me."

                "Why? I already had everything I wanted," he said, pulling Matt down and wrapping both arms around him.

                After a moment of silent pondering, he asked: "Do you think our pup was conceived on my birthday?"

                "I don't know, maybe. It had to be one of those five days. Though," Matt heaved a dramatic sigh, "I suppose it would be terribly poetic if it was."

                Again, Gil snorted. "Maybe it'll be born on _your_ birthday."

                Matt shrugged, and repeated: "Maybe."

                Curiously, Gil spread his fingers over Matt's abdomen. "What do you think it is? An Alpha or an Omega?"

                He felt Matt shiver in silent laughter.

                "It's only been seven weeks, love."

                "Oh, come on," Gil teased, nuzzling Matt's curls, " _Omega's intuition_ , right?"

                "Mm, yes, that's right." Sighing sleepily, Matt rested his head on Gil's chest. "What do you want it to be?" he asked after a pause. "An Alpha or an Omega?"

                Gil heard quiet apprehension in Matt's voice, the unjustified worry that he might deliver the opposite of what his Alpha-mate desired. Reassuringly, he kissed the Omega's head. "Both."

                "Oh? Well, twins _do_ run in my family."

                Before Gil could reply, Al reappeared. "What are you two talking about?" he asked, sitting down unabashedly close to Gil.

                "Nothing," Matt said, yawning.

                Uninvited, Al propped a blanket against Gil's elbow as a pillow and then curled-up beside Matt, like two pups in a nursery. Gil shifted, and only then noticed how warm Al felt—warmer than he should have been, yet he shivered. Matt noticed it, too.

                "Al?" he said, lifting his head. Gently, he pressed a hand to Al's face. "You're feverish," he worried. "How long have you been feverish for?"

                "I'm fine, Mattie. It comes and goes—Matt," he called as Matt pushed himself up, leaving Gil and Al cuddling together.

                "How long has my brother been ill?" Matt asked Ivan, who was sitting opposite, deftly carving a piece of oak. He disliked being idle, Gil noticed. He was always quietly doing something.

                Ivan sighed deeply, straining the fabric of his shirt.

                (He looked stupid in Gil's shirt, Gil thought. Since the Alpha had been bare-chested when they had met, Matt had donated one of Gil's spare shirts to the Easterner. It was long enough in the sleeves but not wide enough across the chest and the dark fabric was now stretched taut over Ivan's muscular torso, making him look bigger than he was. _He's even bigger than Ludwig_ , he thought in disdain. _Nobody has any business being that big._ )

                "He's been sick for too long," said the Easterner regrettably, "but I don't know how to cure it."

                "Al," Matt faced his brother. With his arms crossed and a warning in his tone, he sounded uncannily like an unhappy parent. "What did you do?"

                Al muttered and buried his face, using Gil as a shield.

                " _Alfred Kirkland_ , tell me right now."

                "Gods, okay _Dad_!" Al sulked. "I just... took a Heat-inhibiting potion."

                Matt cursed. Gil had never heard his Omega-mate curse before and found it funny—even when Matt turned that reprimanding glare on him.

                "It's not funny, Gil! My brother poisoned himself!"

                "Mattie, I'm fine!" Al insisted, even as he shivered and sweat. Matt ignored him and set to work brewing an antidote.

                Gil pulled a blanket up over Al's golden head, like a cloak. "Better not to argue, little brother," he said.

* * *

_Little brother_. Only that accepting term-of-endearment reassured Ivan that his intended mate was not in danger from the other Alpha. That, and the devoted way the Westerner behaved with his own Omega-mate. Ivan didn't like Gil—not at all, actually; _self-entitled prick_ —and he really didn't like how close Al was sitting beside his brother-by-mating-law, but, begrudgingly, he trusted the situation for two reasons:

                First, because Gil's look was not that of an adulterer or polygamist. Anyone could see that he was hopelessly in love with Matt.

                And second, because Ivan trusted Al more than anyone in his life. After everything they had been through together, how could he not? Ivan had known love and friendship before: the proof was in his sister and Sasha's self-sacrifices for him. But no one had ever stood by him like Al did. Al's love was not a default of blood-relation or debt. What made Al different was that he had always had a choice, and he chose Ivan. He trusted Ivan, which meant a lot to the self-invented hermit. The least Ivan could do was trust him in return. Trust that he had desperately missed his brother and now wanted to stay as close to him as possible, be there an Alpha in the middle or not. Besides, Al was no stranger to Alphas. He was not afraid of them. And he had always been a liberal hugger. He liked to cuddle more than anyone Ivan knew, and Ivan was hardly going to deny him of it now that he and Matt had finally been reunited.

                (That, and Gil's body-language was not aggressive just then; though Ivan kept a subtle eye on him in case it changed.)

                Matt, on the other hand, was quieter and a lot more cautious in his affections than Al. He was shy— _like me_ , Ivan realized.

                In the Capital, Ivan's silent intensity, deep voice, and formidable stature had been misleading. When such a large, strong Alpha—always big for his age—refused to make eye-contact, the officers called it rebelliousness and had done their utmost to correct it, never guessing that the real reason Ivan froze was nervousness. More than anything he had hated being called-out. He had hated being the centre-of-attention—he still did—and his face flushed with shame and anxiety, rarely anger. But who would believe that of such a promising warrior? The first pup of his year to kill an enemy? What Ivan hadn't told Al was that he had cried that night. After the soldiers had rewarded him with hot food and a place by the fire and an affectionate pat on the head, Ivan had crawled into his sleeping-roll and silently cried himself to sleep, a fist stuffed into his mouth so that no one would hear him. He had missed his family that night more than he had in two whole years and desperately wanted to go home. He had never wanted to be a soldier, even though he was good at it. He had never wanted to be what was expected of him.

                _Like Matthew_ , he thought, watching the Omega pound herbs into a paste. Al's stories of Matt usually alluded to the Omega's domestic talents, and—to Ivan's ears—how often Matt was taken for granted. It seemed that, like Ivan, Matt had always played the role provided for him. He never sulked or complained, he just did what was asked of him over-and-over again until the _thank-yous_ faded into monotonous expectation. Ivan doubted that Al understood it. _If Mattie really hated it_ , _then he wouldn't do it_ , Al would argue, because he couldn't understand why anyone would do anything they disliked. _I wouldn't_! said Al's voice in Ivan's head, prompting an indulgent smile. But not everyone was as headstrong as Al. Not everyone felt they had a choice, but did that make them less deserving of admiration?

                " _No_ , _Ivan_ ," his sister had told him once. She had been digging potatoes, her face filthy and fingernails clotted with crescents of dirt; digging quietly all day to ensure he and his younger sister had enough to eat. She had looked up at him from a crouch, straw-yellow hair golden in the sun, and said: " _Courage doesn't always roar_. _Most of the time_ , _courage is simply getting on and moving forward._ "

                Forward, forward never back.

 _You've got the resilience of an Easterner_ , _Matthew Kirkland._

                As Ivan watched Matt brew a restorative tea for Al, he noticed the subtle imperfections on the pretty Omega, whom Al described as flawless. But he wasn't. Matt's hands were gentle and fine-boned, but his knuckles were chaffed and his fingertips were red, like Ivan's sister's had been—years of cooking and laundry taking its toll. Matt didn't have the scars of adventure, but he did have small marks that betrayed a working life: a pin-prick here, a burn there. Matt's fair skin camouflaged the imperfections, but it couldn't erase the evidence of someone who worked hard to take care of his family.

                _That's the kind of Alpha-mate I want to be_ , he thought contentedly. Again, he took up his hunting-knife and the oak branch and continued the delicate work. _I don't care about glory or riches. I don't care if no one remembers my name once I'm gone. I just want to enjoy life with my Omega-mate and take care of my new family_. _All of them_ , he decided, including Matt and (grudgingly) Gil.

                The breeze tugged Matt's curls and carried the faint scent of pregnancy to the Alpha, who subtly smiled. He rather liked the thought of being Uncle Ivan.

* * *

You're staring at my brother," said Al softly, plopping down on Ivan's lap with his tea. Exhausted, Matt had returned to Gil's side and fallen asleep. Al guessed that Gil was only pretending to be asleep, because he twitched at every noise. Or perhaps he was just a light-sleeper, like Ivan. "I told you Matt was pretty."

                "He is pretty," Ivan acknowledged, off-handed, "but he's not like you described."

                Al cocked his head. "No?" He, too, glanced at his sleeping brother. Matt did look rather wan at the moment. "He's pregnant, maybe that's why."

                "No," Ivan said, but didn't explain. After a moment, he slipped a misshapen piece of oak into his pocket, too quick for Al to see what it was, and then sat back with his hands resting comfortably on Al's hips. "I'm disappointed in your story-telling, Alfred. I was expecting an Omega of incomparable beauty—an angel," he exaggerated. "He would've had to be an angel to be more beautiful than you."

                "Isn't he?"

                "No."

                "Are you just saying that to make me feel better?"

                "No.

                "Stop pouting," Ivan said. "Your lips are enticing enough without puckering them."

                "Oh?" Al leant forward, playfully brushing his lips against Ivan's. "Want a taste?"

                "Desperately," Ivan smiled, "but it's unwise to tempt me, little one. It's hard enough to resist your scent on the rainiest of days, and now we have a mated couple beside us—a pregnant Omega."

                "Is Matt's scent that enticing?" Al asked.

                Al had never wanted to be pregnant—and he didn't now, either—but the way Ivan regarded Matt's state made him jealous of the attention. Alphas tended to be gentler and quieter with pregnant Omegas, especially young ones, as if pregnancy suddenly made the Omega more vulnerable. More precious. Most Alphas were indulgent, yet cautious of pregnant Omegas: indulgent of the Omega's needs, but cautious of his Alpha-mate. Maybe it was the change in Omega hormones that caused it, or maybe it was just Alpha instinct, but Al had seen a lot of Alpha-mates become possessive of his Omega and refuse to let other Alphas near him while pregnant. Arthur teasingly called it _post-Heat paranoia_ , because the scent of pregnancy was not unlike Heat. _It's all of the same pheromones—all of the same scents—but to different degrees_ , Arthur had explained. _That's why so many Alphas become possessive and suspicious when their Omega is pregnant_ , _because he's afraid that others might try to hurt his unborn pup or claim his Omega like when he's in Heat. It's usually unfounded... but it_ does _sometimes happen_ , he admitted uneasily. Al wondered if Gil would become that kind of Alpha-mate, paranoid for Matt's safety. He seemed the type. He was already very protective of Matt and disliked when the Omega was out of reach, but Al supposed it was caution more than possessiveness in his case; the result of their current situation.

                _Mattie's only seven weeks pregnant_ , Al knew, only because Ivan had told him. He, himself, couldn't smell a change. _I wonder how enticing his scent really is_?

                "It's not enticing," Ivan corrected, thinking of how best to describe it. "It's not even that strong—not yet. He smells too much like his Alpha-mate right now. It's more that they're mated and we're not," Ivan admitted, squeezing Al gently. "He's claimed Matt as his Omega-mate," he said, jutting his chin gruffly at Gil. "They're pair-bonded, unlike you and I. I guess I'm just jealous of him."

                "Don't be, sweetheart," Al said, kissing Ivan's cheek. He smiled. "We'll be pair-bonded soon, I promise. Just because they're mated and we're not doesn't mean we don't love each other just as much, right?"

                Ivan smiled, too. "That's right."

                "Besides," Al shrugged, smile becoming a smirk, "you're _much_ more handsome than he is. Though"—he drew a finger across the cheek he had just kissed—"you _could_ use a shave."

                Ivan rolled his eyes. "Drink your tea, little one," he said.

* * *

Matt woke long after sunrise, long after everyone else. No one had woken him earlier, and for that he was grateful. He had slept fitfully despite his fatigue, unable to get comfortable, and roused by every little sound. He missed the safety and softness of Gil's bed in the fort—the bed that had become his nest. It's what he tried not to want now.

                Yawning, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up. His head had been pillowed on Gil's lap; Gil, who was glaring vehemently at Ivan. Matt looked between his Alpha-mate and the Easterner, who was quietly minding his own business as he used a hunting-knife to shave his face.

                "Look at him," Gil grumbled, crossing his arms. "Smug bastard."

                Matt stifled a giggle. Crawling to his knees, he whispered to Gil: "Is this because you can't grow a beard?"

                " _Shut up_!" Gil barked in German. Matt laughed and kissed his fair cheek.

                Ivan looked over. "Oh, did you want to get cleaned-up?" he asked, ironically offering Gil the hunting-knife.

                "Fuck off," Gil deadpanned.

                Ivan feigned shock, then sympathy. "Don't worry. I'm sure once puberty hits that peach-fuzz will thicken into a very handsome silver beard."

                Al choked on his breakfast and had to spit it back out.

                Gil growled at the younger Alpha.

                Matt said: "Oh, don't listen to them. You're just fair-skinned, love. And your hair is very fine. It's beautiful, so much softer than Alphas with scratchy beards. It's a good thing, really. It's low-maintenance—"

                "Matt," Gil interrupted, "stop helping."

                "Sorry," Matt said as Ivan chuckled and Al erupted into sputtering giggles.

                As the Alphas proceeded to pack-up the campsite—Gil in sulky silence; Ivan in good-spirits—Matt brewed Al a cuppa tea.

                "You know, you and Ivan could both do with haircuts, Al."

                "Why? You don't like my long flowing locks?" Al teased, coiling a tangle of gold hair around his index-finger.

                "Your rat's nest? No, I'm afraid it doesn't suit you. Come here," Matt said, handing Al the tea while ordering him to sit. He took a straight-razor—which Ivan _could_ have shaved with instead of the hunting-knife ( _perhaps he was being smug_ )—and began cutting the tangles out of Al's sunny hair. It took longer than he anticipated, and Ivan's took even longer. He looked like a brooding pup as he sat on a fallen log, arms crossed as the Omega washed and combed and cut, trying to be as delicate as possible, but Ivan's thick mane was even more knotted than Al's. Gil leant against a tree—his fine silvery hair blowing in the breeze—grinning smugly.

                After their hair was cleaned and cut, Al and Ivan were told to go to the river to bathe.

                "I'm surprised you're not infested with lice," Matt complained, shoving soap at them. "You look like you've been living in a cave for the past two months."

                " _Shocking_ ," Al stage-whispered, much to his brother's chagrin.

                Matt began tidying the toiletries, but paused with the straight-razor in-hand. "Gil?" he asked, fingering a curl self-consciously.

                "Hmm?"

                "Do you like the way I look? Because I can change it if you don't," he offered. He thought of Al and how much effort he had always secretly put into his appearance, trying to look his best for Alphas who never seemed to notice. In contrast, Matt had never worried about his looks before, confident that they must be adequate to receive so much attention. In fact, Gil was the only Alpha Matt knew who _hadn't_ paid his looks any attention—not verbally, at least. Gil had never given Matt a reason to suspect that he disliked his looks, but he had never confirmed that he liked them either. Matt supposed it didn't matter; their relationship was not so shallow. But knowing that his twin-brother would come back from the river cleaned into a stunning figure of vibrant beauty, and knowing that he, himself, would only grow weary and fat as the months pressed on made Matt feel suddenly self-conscious.

                "When we get home," he said helpfully, "I can have Papa cut my hair, or I can start using cosmetics, or I can dress however you'd like me to—"

                " _What_?" Gil's shock was blunt.

                Matt bowed his head as he replaced the straight-razor. "Well, it's just that you've never even mentioned my looks before, so I thought that maybe you didn't like them? Maybe I'm not to your preference? But I can change that, I don't mind—"

                "Matt, stop," Gil waved his hands. "I—I'm such a fucking idiot," he said, covering his eyes. "I can't believe I've never paid you a compliment."

                "Oh, no—you have, Gil, of course you have," Matt assured him. "You said that my hearing ability is amazing, remember? And you praised my idea to use the catapults to break the dam—you even kissed me," he said brightly.

                Gil peaked at Matt over his hands. "Oh, Gods," he groaned. "Is that really all? I'm so sorry, _schatz_."

                "No, no, it's okay," Matt said, closing the distance between them. He took Gil's hands and pulled them off the Alpha's face. "I'm not fishing for compliments. I just want to know, genuinely, if there's anything about my looks you don't like? I don't mind. I've never really cared how I look, so if you want me to change something, I will—"

                " _No_ ," Gil interrupted, as if Matt had spoken blasphemy. "No, I don't want you to change. Not at all. I—Okay," he re-started cautiously, "see, I'm not very good at giving praise, especially to pretty Omegas. I get fidgety and nervous and my tongue stops working and my face gets red—like this," he indicated in embarrassment, "and it's very, very un-awesome. But just because I'm too thick to say it doesn't mean I don't think it, _schatz_.

                "The truth is," he said, holding Matt's hands, "you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Inside and out.

                "I-I—I mean, inside like _inside_. Like, you've got a good heart. Not like inside like when we're mating—though that's pretty nice, too. But that's not what I meant—"

                " _Hush_ ," Matt laughed, covering Gil's mouth with a hand. "Gods, you _are_ bad at this."

                Gil nodded, cheeks flushed like strawberry syrup.

                "It's okay," Matt reassured him, "you don't have to say anything."

                Gil pulled Matt's hand away and squeezed it. "No, I want to," he said, determined now. "Because it's my fault you don't know how much you mean to me. I don't deserve you, _schatz_ —"

                "Gil—"

                "—but I sure as hell am never letting you go. You're the sweetest, kindest, cleverest, most selfless person I know, and what amazes me is that you don't use any of your gifts for yourself. I mean it," he said, lifting Matt's head. The Omega was blushing now, too. "Everything you do is for someone else. You're so generous. And you're so much fun. You know what my favourite part of living at the fort together was? Lying in bed with you, talking and laughing. Seeing you smile was— _is_ —my favourite part of the day. I don't think I can really express how grateful I am to have you in my life, _schatz_. You're the bravest person I know. I'm so lucky to have you as my Omega-mate. I'm sorry I waited so long to tell you that," he said apologetically. "But I wouldn't dare change a thing about you. I love you, Matt, and that's never going to change.

                "So, you see," he smiled cheekily, "the fact that you're the most beautiful Omega in the _whole fucking world_ is really just a bonus."

                It took Matt a moment to find his voice. "Apology accepted," he joked, smiling coyly. Thoughtfully, he added: "Do you really think I'm brave?"

                "Yes."

                The Omega shook his head. "I've been afraid my whole life."

                "But it's never crippled you," Gil praised. "You don't run and hide, you find your courage and do what needs doing. I mean, look at us!" Without warning he spun Matt around, holding him back-to-chest to show him the forest. "We're only here, free, because of you. You're a lot stronger than you think you are, _schatz_."

                "No one's ever used the words _brave_ and _strong_ to describe me before."

                "Then no one's ever really known you."

                Matt smiled and hugged Gil's arms around himself. "Thank-you, Gil. But I think you're wrong."

                "Hmm?"

                Matt nodded, turning his head to look back at the bemused Alpha. "It's me who's lucky to have you. If I could choose anyone in the whole world to spend my life with, I would still choose you, Gil. No contest."

                "Sure _you_ wouldn't want someone better-looking? I mean, I don't know about you, but I'm seriously worried about our poor pup," he teased, patting Matt's abdomen.

                "Why?" Matt asked, twisting his body to face Gil. He looped his arms around the Alpha's neck. "Afraid he'll have skin as white as snow, and red eyes like summer strawberries, and cheekbones that could cut glass? Afraid he'll be tall and strong with a figure that looks chiselled from stone? Afraid he'll be just as charming as you? Just as clever and mischievous? Afraid he'll be a brave and loyal leader? Someone who loves his family more than anything in the world? Someone who would sacrifice everything he has to protect those he loves? Afraid he'll be even more incredible than you, my handsome Alpha-mate?"

                Gil rolled his eyes.

                Matt pressed himself closer, emitting a seductive moan disguised as an exasperated sigh. "Don't tell me you really don't know how _unbearably sexy_ you are?" he said, mimicking Gil's earlier tone. The Alpha swallowed, a flush betraying his excitement. Matt felt Gil's hands tighten as they pulled him closer—close enough for the Omega to grind his hips suggestively against the Alpha's stiff groin. "You don't believe me?" he whispered, leaning up. He kissed Gil, then lingered, sucking on his lower lip. An aggressive growl rumbled in the Alpha's throat. Matt's heart quickened in anticipation. He grabbed Gil's belt. "You really don't know how crazy you make me? How much I want you, Gilbert Beilschmidt?

                "Then let me show you."

* * *

Ivan and Al were drying off on the riverbank when the former caught a scent on the breeze and the latter caught a sound—a desperate, mewling sound that gasped in breathless affirmation. _Is that my brother_? Al thought, mortified. Quickly, he glanced at Ivan, whose nostrils flared.

                "I think, maybe, we shouldn't go back just yet," Al suggested.

                Ivan nodded. His whole body was rigid, his movements jerky as he retreated into the water and swam to the opposite bank. After a moment Al followed, wanting to put as much distance between himself and his brother's poorly muffled moans as possible.

                " _Bastard Westerner_ ," Ivan was muttering as Al sat down beside him. His violet eyes were fixed on the murky riverbed; he didn't even look sideways when Al shivered in the cold breeze. He only smiled ruefully and conspicuously implied his inadvertent arousal. "It's probably better if I don't touch you just yet," he said.

                Blushing, Al nodded. He wanted to argue—he wanted Ivan to make him feel what Gil was making Matt feel—but he and Ivan had discussed mating often enough to know the Alpha wouldn't mate him until he went into Heat. It was very frustrating. He felt jealous of Matt's cries, odd as it seemed. He felt—competitive. Instinctively, he wanted to feel just as desirable an Omega as Matt, and he had to remind himself that soon he too would know the pleasure of an Alpha. He had to combat arousal with logic, because he didn't want to cause Ivan—or himself—any more anguish than necessary. So instead of throwing himself on Ivan like he wanted to, he pulled his knees up to his chest and shivered, letting the cold numb the heat of desire, while wishing that his clothes weren't stranded on the opposite riverbank. He searched his brain for a sobering topic, and finally said:

                "Those lashings were meant for Sasha, weren't they?"

                In the pale sunlight, Al could see the jagged scars scoring Ivan's back.

                "Yes."

                Ivan's voice was reticent, but Al waited. He wouldn't prod further. If Ivan wanted to tell the story, he would.

                And, after a moment, he did.

                "I don't even remember what he did to deserve them," Ivan narrated. "It feels like so long ago. I was twelve. I didn't know how much it would hurt—no one does. But somehow I knew that Sasha wouldn't survive it. You wouldn't have known it," he said, glancing sideways at Al, "but Sasha was a runt in the Capital. I don't think his family had had much to eat because he was all skin-and-bones—gangly and freckled. The soldiers liked to bully him, but he was never timid. He had a big mouth. That's probably what had earned him the lashings. But the day they dragged him into the courtyard he was quiet, too scared to even make a sound. He was crying, naked fear on his face. He knew he wouldn't survive it. Everyone did—but nobody moved. Nobody tried to stop it."

                "You did," Al said, taking Ivan's hand.

                "I did," he repeated solemnly, not looking at Al.

                "That's why he thought he owed you, because you took the lashings for him," Al guessed. "You saved his life."

                "I prolonged it," Ivan corrected. "I didn't _save_ anyone. It happened again to others. Nothing changed. If I'd been braver, I would've fought it. I _should've_ fought it. If enough of us did, we might've succeeded. I might have saved everyone then, not just one Alpha-pup. But I didn't, because I was scared. I kept quiet, and I took Sasha's punishment for him, and when I awoke in the barracks two days later I got up and I went back to work and I never said a fucking word."

                "Do you regret it, taking the lashings?" Al asked after a minute.

                Ivan's reply was fast:

                "No."

                And that was that. There was no complaining or groaning or feeling sorry for himself. There never was with Ivan, even when Al encouraged it. Even when Al told him it was okay to whine and cry sometimes, Ivan merely cocked an eyebrow, smiled, and said: "You don't need to worry about me. I'm okay now, little one." _Now_. Al always wondered what Ivan meant by _now_ , as if his well-being was a recent change, but the Alpha would ignore the question or change the topic-of-conversation if asked, so Al had decided to simply be happy for him. (And secretly watch him for signs of stress. Al knew what it was like to feel so helplessly lost and alone, and he never wanted Ivan to feel that way again.) If Ivan wanted to talk, he would. And he did, little by little. In the meantime, Al would talk enough for the both of them. _He's still a big_ , _silent lump_ , he thought affectionately. But that was Ivan. Just Ivan. An Alpha who no longer regretted the past; just had hope for the future. _That_ was Al's Alpha-mate—the strongest, bravest, kindest Alpha he knew.

                _I'm so lucky to know him_ , he thought, feeling privileged. _I can't believe he chose me. He could've had anyone if he stayed in the east_ , _but instead he chose me._

                A flood of pride flushed Al, and he shimmied sideways, wanting to be closer to the Alpha. He laid his head on Ivan's shoulder and kissed the top of a jagged white scar, then traced it over his shoulder-blade and down his back. In a content tone, he simply said:

                "I love you."

                Ivan looked down at him, the sadness in his violet eyes melting into reluctant happiness. His eyes sparkled when he was happy. _So beautiful_ , Al thought. He felt the Alpha wrap an arm around him, and then heard Ivan's deep, rumbling voice:

                "I know, little one. I love you, too."

* * *

Later, after Al had thoroughly scolded Matt's indiscretion—

                " _Oh_ , _gods_!" Matt clapped a hand to his mouth, going scarlet. " _You saw us_?"

                " _Heard_ you," Al corrected. "Gods, Matt, the whole forest heard you! Who knew you could be that _loud_?"

                —he was still thinking about what Ivan had told him, and wondered if Gil had any deep, dark secrets that he was keeping from Matt.

                Al was determined to like Gil, his brother-by-mating-law, but he had to admit that the red-eyed ex-captain of the great Western Army was not at all what he had expected of Matt's Alpha-mate.

                "Do you love him?" he asked bluntly. He nodded subtly at Gil, who was walking a few paces ahead of he and Matt. (Ivan was walking a few paces behind, because Gil and Ivan did not want to walk side-by-side.)

                "Yes," Matt replied earnestly, "I love him very much."

                "He's not what I expected to you end up with," Al confessed.

                Matt chuckled. "Me neither, if I'm being honest. But it's a good thing," he added. "I was never excited about my prospects on the Isles. I never felt safe with anyone there."

                "You feel safe with him?" Again, Al jut his chin at Gil's back. (The Alpha had a proud strut in his posture that made Al want to mimic him in jest.)

                Matt nodded. "Yes, he makes me feel very safe. Despite everything that's happened, I haven't had a proper panic-attack since I met him."

                " _Really_?" Al asked, impressed.

                Matt was such a timid Omega, it wasn't uncommon for him to need frequent comfort from an Alpha. Arthur said that Matt would grow out of it, like he had done, but Al worried that his brother was not as tough-fibred as their scrappy Omega-father. He suspected that Matt would need a patient, considerate Alpha-mate to always take care of him. An Alpha much like Francis, who's kind indulgence had always soothed the Omega-pup's shaky nerves. A soft, unintimidating Alpha—not an Alpha like Gil. The softest thing about Gil was his leather tunic, Al thought. Everything else about him was hard and sharp and unpolished, and his blood-red eyes screamed intimidation.

                _Not like my Ivan_. _My Ivan's so sweet_ , he thought in superiority.

                Therefore, he was very surprised when Matt suddenly said:

                "Ivan is a little... distant."

                "Distant?" Al repeated, taking offense. "What do you mean by that?"

                "Well, he's not very approachable, is he? He doesn't smile much. But I'm sure he's lovely," Matt amended. "He has a very kind heart. And it's obvious he loves you, Al. He's very protective of you. Maybe that's why he seems so reproachful."

                "I don't t think he likes Gilbert," Al admitted.

                Matt snorted. "I _know_ Gil doesn't like him. But they'll get used to each other. They're not that different, you know."

                "Dear gods, don't tell them that," Al whispered, feigning fright. Matt giggled.

                Al smiled at his brother. "I'm glad you're happy, Mattie. You deserve to be happy."

                Companionably, Matt looped his arm through Al's. "So do you, Al. I'm glad you found someone who makes you happy."

                "Thanks, Mattie."

                "What are you two giggling about?" Gil asked, turning to walk backwards.

                "Nothing, love!" Matt smiled innocently.

                "Mattie's just telling me how you are in bed!" Al called. "Why else would we be laughing?"

                " _Al_! _No_ , _I'm not_!"

                Gil rolled his eyes and turned back around.

                " _Jerk_ ," Matt hissed, pushing Al.

                Al snickered and pushed back.

                "Careful," Ivan said, catching Matt under the arms and righting him. "Your family might be a bit miffed if we deliver you home covered in bruises."

                "I think we're risking a bit _miffed_ either way," Al pointed out. "They probably think we're dead. I can't even imagine how they're going to react, especially when they see these two," he gestured between Ivan and Gil. "They're not going to be happy."

                "You don't know that, Al. I'm sure they'll just be relieved we're _not_ dead," Matt prophesied, albeit weakly.

                "Relieved that we're mated and you're pregnant?"

                Matt pursed his lips. "Well... Dad will understand. He's an Omega. And I'm sure Uncle Scott will accept them into the pack once we've explained. And Papa, uh..."

                "Papa's going to have a fucking heart-attack," Al finished, matter-of-fact. He looked pointedly at his brother's abdomen, daring Matt to argue.

                Which he didn't.


	25. Lost Boys — Chapter Sixteen

**THE ISLES**

Arthur slept fitfully. He knew he was in his bed, in his bedchamber, in his house, and he could feel the satisfying weight of his Alpha-mate's body lying next to him, but something was wrong. His mind felt heavy as it worried at the edges of consciousness, eyelids quivering and pulse increasing as he fought the heavy pull of sleep. A cold feeling poured into him, like water. _Dad_ , said a small voice in the distance. Arthur swam through the darkness, trying to reach the surface where, beyond the ripples, a blurry figure was taking shape, staring at him. _Dad_.

                _That's me_ , he thought slowly. His mind felt like cotton. _I'm Dad_.

                " _Dad_ , _wake up._

                " _Dad_ —" poke, poke "— _wake up_!"

                Arthur peeled his eyes open a sliver and saw two big blue orbs staring eagerly at him. "Alfred?" he mumbled as sleep receded.

                Alfred stood at the edge of the bed, his wheat-blonde head no higher than Arthur's. The sleeves of his woolen nightshirt were bunched at the elbows and the cuffs were frayed from the pup's ceaseless picking. Arthur would have to mend it before the entire garment unravelled. It didn't matter how often he was told not to pull at loose strings or unbutton buttons or slip out of his boots; Alfred was an experimenter of the most exhausting kind. Sometimes it took the whole family to keep him out of trouble. Rules and reprimands didn't seem to faze him. He just stared back with a determined set to his soft, round jaw and defiance in his stubborn blue eyes. But Alfred's eyes were not stubborn now. They were as big as saucers and fearful. One of his pudgy hands had balled the bed-sheets into a fist, the other was clasping his brother.

                Matthew stood just behind Alfred, as usual. The dark chamber hid most of his tiny figure, but where starlight touched him, chasing off the shadows, his skin glowed white. Sometimes, Arthur thought, in certain slants of sun and moonlight, Matthew didn't look like a pup at all, but instead like one of the fey. If he hadn't remembered giving birth to him—and if he didn't look so much like Francis—Arthur would have called Matthew _changeling_. Not only because of his looks, but because of how he moved. Or didn't move, rather. Matthew stood silently behind Alfred, not moving a muscle until Alfred said in a quivering voice:

                "Mattie's scared."

                In that moment, Matthew's violet eyes widened and he pinched his red lips, as if he had only been waiting for Alfred to tell him how to feel.

                Arthur sighed and lifted the blanket, inviting the pups into the bed. Matthew crawled over Arthur's belly and landed between he and Francis, claiming the warmest place for himself. Francis barely woke; he didn't even open his eyes. He murmured incoherently and buried his nose in Matthew's curls, a peaceful smile on his face. Arthur wrapped one arm around Matthew and pulled Alfred close with the other. Alfred had burrowed beneath the blanket on the opposite side, near the edge of the bed. Arthur looped his arm under and around him like a safety rope, afraid that the pup might otherwise roll off in the night. The bed wasn't very big. Alfred squirmed for a moment, then relaxed and pillowed his head on Arthur's chest, and, just like that, he was asleep. Arthur lay on his back, sandwiched between his pups' small bodies, and listened to their soft breathing as the tension eased out of him.

                Slowly—contentedly—he closed his eyes.

* * *

He opened his eyes.

                Something was wrong.

                A loud, unforgiving torrent pounded in his eardrums and he awoke with a violent jolt.

                " _Alfred. Matthew_."

                He blinked in the dark, seeing the same ceiling he had fallen asleep staring at, but something was wrong. The weight and warmth was gone. Disoriented, he clutched at where Alfred and Matthew should have been, but they were gone. Panic squeezed his chest as he rolled onto his side and swiped at the bed-sheets, reaching out, but there was nothing there. His heart-rate increased and his breathing came quick and ragged as he pushed himself onto his knees and began digging, tossing pillows aside and tearing at the bed until the mattress lay bare. "No, no, no—" he pleaded as tears filled his eyes. He could hear their screams, even though he hadn't heard them at the time. He knew their voices, the looks of identical terror they wore when afraid. He saw the water drag them under, but he couldn't reach them. He yelled and begged and prayed, but the water swallowed them both.

                "No— _please_ , _no_.

                " _Francis_ ," he said, his head whipping frantically from left-to-right. The bedchamber was quiet and cold and empty.

                " _Francis_!" he screamed.

                The Alpha quickly appeared in the doorframe, a lithe figure bathed in moonlight. He looked much older than he had two months ago. He wore a defensive expression, ready to face a threat, but it melted into sympathy when he saw his Omega-mate clutching himself, sobbing and shaking.

                Francis hurried to the bed and gathered Arthur into his arms. "It's okay, _chéri_. Just breathe, you're okay."

                "I-I-I—I thought you were gone."

                "I'm not, I'm right here. I'm here," he repeated, kissing Arthur's head. "I just stepped out for a moment."

                Arthur pressed his forehead to the warm skin of Francis' bare shoulder, hiding the sight of the chamber. In a whisper, he said: " _I saw them_."

                "I know," Francis soothed. He rubbed one hand up-and-down the length of Arthur's spine, the other held his Omega-mate tight.

                "They're gone, Fran— _they're gone_."

                The Alpha's body stiffened and, for a moment, he stopped breathing. Arthur pressed himself closer, listening to the beating of Francis' heart and the eventual release of breath. Softly, he repeated:

                "I know."

* * *

**THE LOW COUNTRIES**

_Halt_!" ordered the border guard. "If you do not have a diplomatic passport, you are not welcome here, Westerner. Take your..." he paused, considering the ragtag company, "...uh, your family... and turn back. These lands are home to the free clans and we do not want any of your militant sentiments here."

                Gil felt a growl claw up his throat, but he swallowed it when he felt Matt's beseeching touch. "We're traveling to the Isles," he said in Dutch. "My Omega-mate has family there. We just need to reach the coast. We don't want any trouble."

                "No trouble, and yet you carry weapons with you," said the guard. "Military weapons."

                Gil itched to draw his sword and be done with this wasteful conversation. The border guards were many, but none were trained soldiers. He and Ivan could cut through them if needed. But, again, he felt Matt's hand on his arm, and heard the Omega whisper:

                " _They're not our enemies_."

                "We're not your enemies," Gil rephrased stiffly. He eyed the Low-Lander wearily. "We're just travellers trying to get home."

                "Home?" said the guards' leader. He surveyed the foursome doubtfully.

                "Yes, _home_ ," Al snapped, losing his patience. "You know, the place where your Omega-parent wiped your ass as a pup."

                Gil grit his teeth, angry that Al couldn't follow the simplest order. He had told the others to stay quiet and let him do the talking, the negotiating. "It's better if they don't hear your foreign accents, especially you," he had warned Ivan. The Low-Landers often did trade with their western neighbours, but an Easterner and two Islanders who both smelled like Southerners would invite unwanted suspicion.

                _At least they don't know who we are_ —

                "My name is Alfred Kirkland," Al proclaimed loudly in English. "And that's my brother, Matthew Kirkland. The Omega who's _technically_ pair-bonded to your Clan Leader's heir. We demand to be taken to the Great House!"

                _Well_ , _fuck_ , Gil sighed, at the same time the leader said:

                "Seize them!"

                Gil shot Al a nasty look when a pair of Low-Landers roughly grabbed his arms and a third relieved him of his weapons. His body tensed and he started to struggle, but, again, he stilled when he saw the plea in Matt's eyes.

                _Don't fight them_. _They're not our enemies_ , _Gil._

 _It would be easier if they were_ , he thought darkly, growling at the guard who approached Matt.

                "Touch him and you'll wish you hadn't," he warned.

                The Low-Lander hesitated, then turned to his superior, who nodded. "Turn out your pockets," said the young guard in a wobbly voice; trying to be stern, but utterly enchanted by the pretty, docile Omega. (He couldn't have been older than eighteen-years-old.) For once, Gil was glad for Matt's appeal. _He looks so—elegant_ , he thought in surprise, proud of his Omega-mate's self-confidence. Matt kept his head raised as he obligingly handed over his satchel, a cool expression on his face. He did it all one-handed, his left hand resting low on his abdomen in silent warning, which the guards seemed to understand. No one jostled him or hurried him, and the young guard blushed and muttered an apology when he accidentally brushed Matt's hand. None of them wanted to be responsible for upsetting a pregnant Omega and Matt was taking advantage of it.

                "Please don't lose this," he said, handing over the dagger. "It belonged to my Alpha-mate's father. I'll want it back."

                The guard nodded.

                Despite Gil's position—his wrists bound at his back like a prisoner—he was relieved the Low-Landers showed such respect to his Omega-mate. Unlike the shameless Southerners, he thought, remembering Le Roux, the Alphas of the Low Countries abided by the same codes of conduct as their Western cousins. They discouraged needless violence against Omegas, which was considered to be nothing but bullying, since Alphas were so much bigger and stronger—though, the guards trying to disarm Al may have disagreed.

                " _What the fuck_?" he spat, his blue eyes full of spitfire. "Get away from us! Don't touch us!" he yelled at the guards who approached he and Ivan. "I just told you I'm _Alfred Kirkland_! Don't you know who I am? Take me to the Great House, I demand it!"

                "We _are_ taking you to the Great House!" barked a nearby guard as he tried—unsuccessfully—to bind Ivan's hands.

                Ivan biffed him heedlessly aside and growled at the guard stalking toward Al.

                "We're not prisoners!" Al argued, retreating to Ivan's side. "Don't treat us like prisoners!"

                Gil suspected the Omega's volatile reaction and distrust stemmed from trauma he had suffered at the hands of the Southerners, but if he, himself, had to go bound like a thief— _gods damn it_ —then Ivan sure as hell had to, too.

                "Al," Matt said before Gil could. It was good; Matt's words were kinder than Gil's would have been. "It's just a precaution. They're not going to hurt us. Are you?" he asked the Low-Lander, more of a statement than a question.

                "No, of course not," he replied. "It's mere protocol, I assure you."

                Al looked from Matt to Ivan, ignoring the Low-Landers in between. _He's not going to relent until he has the Easterner's approval_ , Gil thought.

                But wait, that wasn't right. When had Al ever needed an Alpha's permission to act? Gil studied them closer and realized he had read the situation wrong: Al wasn't fighting the Low-Landers for himself, but for Ivan's benefit. _It's not yourself you're afraid to see in ropes again_ , _is it_ , _Al_? _It's him_. He looked at Ivan, and, now that he knew what to look for, he saw the fear in the Easterner's violet eyes. But he also saw the silent exchange that passed between the Alpha and Omega, and the promise on Ivan's face. It said:

                _I'll trust you_ , _Alfred. If you think these people can be trusted_ , _then I'll let them bind me. I can withstand it if you ask me to_.

                For a brief moment, Gil admired Ivan's courage. And he wondered if he, himself, could willingly accept the ropes again so soon after living so long as a prisoner.

                "Fine," said Al unhappily.

                Without prompting, Ivan presented his wrists to be bound. The Low-Landers looked relieved.

                "This way—please," said the leader, starting off.

                Matt looped his arm through Gil's and stayed close as they walked. "It's just an escort," he whispered, gently squeezing Gil's bicep.

                Gil looked down at Matt and smiled wearily. "So, this _fiancé_ of yours... Just how angry is he going to be?"

* * *

_Matthew Kirkland_?" the Clan Leader gasped in shock.

                "And Alfred," Al muttered at Matt's side.

                The Clan Leader stood on the dais, his face agape as he looked from Matt to Al and back. "Someone fetch my Alpha-pup," he ordered, never taking his eyes off the Islanders. "Hurry!"

                The hall was quiet and everyone was looking at them, whispering, but Matt ignored it. He had been through too much to let a bit of indiscrete staring frighten him.

                "We thought you were dead!" said the Clan Leader. "We thought you had drowned in the flood. How is it you survived?"

                "It's a long story," said Al dismissively. "Where are our parents?"

                "Your parents? Well, they—they thought you dead. They left a month ago."

                "They—left?"

                Matt heard the disappointment in Al's voice, so he quickly changed the topic. "Sir? It's been a long journey. If it's not too much trouble, might my companions and I beg a bed and maybe a bath?"

                "Oh, yes, of course! A celebration!" the Clan Leader clapped his hands. "Prepare a celebration to honour the safe return of my pup's Omega-mate!"

                "Uh, no—thank-you," Matt said. "It's very kind, sir, but..." He glanced awkwardly at the crowd. "Perhaps we could talk in private?"

                "Nonsense," the Clan Leader denied. "This is your clan, Matthew. We don't keep secrets from each other."

                _Secrets like_ , _oh_ , _I don't know_ , _the floodgates won't hold_?

                Matt took a deep breath and proudly lifted his head. This would not be a meek declaration; he would not risk the Low-Landers misunderstanding him. "As you wish," he said. "I can't be Lars' Omega-mate, because I'm mated to him. Gilbert Beilschmidt."

                There was a collective gasp and more than a few scornful scowls, which told Matt he was no longer the Low-Landers' favourite candidate.

                "No, no," said the Clan Leader in confusion, "you can't be his... you're pair-bonded to my Lars... you can't—"

                "I'm pregnant with Gilbert's pup," Matt interrupted, knowing that the confession would effectively end the argument. No self-respecting Alpha would want to raise someone else's pup.

                And he was right. The Clan Leader's broad frame drooped in reluctant defeat as a cacophony of disbelief and disagreement flooded the hall. Matt's keen ears heard a few choice insults used to describe he and his Alpha-mate, but the voice that caught his attention belonged to his scorned betrothed:

                " _Matthew_?" said Lars, pushing through the milling crowd. He looked just as robust and handsome as Matt remembered, though his fair brow was furrowed in disbelief. He stopped in front of Matt and looked him up-and-down, his eyes lingering on the Omega's flat abdomen before returning to his face. "Is that... true?"

                Matt's eyes were soft. "I'm sorry," he confirmed, "but I can't be your Omega-mate anymore."

                "But you swore a vow—"

                "A lot has happened since then," Matt interrupted, again. It felt good to be the one in control. "Gilbert saved my life."

                "So, what?" Lars scoffed. "You _owe_ him?"

                "I _love_ him," Matt corrected. He looked sideways and his eyes captured Gil, who smiled. "I love him with all my heart. I'm sorry if that upsets you, but I'm not sorry it happened."

                Lars' look was thoughtful as he ran a hand through his hair, weighing Matt's confession against the loyalty to his clan; the responsibility he had to his bloodline. Finally, he nodded. "I would've forgiven you, you know," he said, bobbing his head at Matt's middle. He lowered his voice so that only Matt could hear him. "I'm not my Alpha-father, Matthew. I made you a vow. I would've accepted you no matter what you had suffered."

                "I didn't suffer. I chose this. I chose _him_."

                Lars' sage-coloured eyes flicked to Gil and stayed there for a moment, challenging the Westerner's steadfast gaze. Then he sighed and nodded again.

                Matt pulled the delicate gold band off his left hand. "Thank-you for choosing me, and for giving me this," he said, holding it out.

                Lars took it, looked at it, and reluctantly smiled. "Thank-you for giving it back."

* * *

Release them," said Lars, gesturing to the guards.

                _About fucking time_ , Gil thought. His wrists were beginning to chafe.

                "Lars! What do you think you're doing?" growled the old Clan Leader. "Those soldiers might be dangerous!"

                "No, they're not enemies, Vader," said Lars. He was still looking at Matt. "They're friends."

                Gil was relieved by the Low-Lander's practical acceptance of the turn-of-events, but he disliked the way the other Alpha was staring at _his_ Omega. _Friend_ was a strong word-choice for one's Omega-mate's ex-fiancé, he thought.

                Then the Low-Lander did something that the Westerner did not expect. He strode to where Gil stood and wordlessly stuck out his hand. His face was reticent as he waited—a rather handsome face, Gil noted in displeasure—but his gesture was earnest. Gil studied the Alpha, who was three years his junior and yet three inches taller than him, before hesitantly taking his hand. He gripped it hard; so did Lars. Neither of them smiled, but both of them nodded. Then Lars said:

                "You're a lucky Alpha, Gilbert Beilschmidt. I hope you know that."

                Gil said: "I do."

                Then they disconnected, their duty done, and hoped never to touch again.

* * *

If it's not Matthew, then it _must_ be Alfred. Lars!" ordered the Clan Leader. He pointed at Al. "You'll take Alfred to be your Omega-mate—"

                "No."

                Al felt Ivan's shadow swallow him as the Alpha stepped forward, facing the Clan Leader. He was still tied, but his tone left no room for misinterpretation.

                "Alfred is _my_ Omega," he growled menacingly. Suddenly, Al was reminded of the feral warrior he had met in the wilderness; the Alpha who had fearlessly taken on a bear bare-handed; the Alpha who's glare threatened to rip his enemies apart.

                _Gods_ , _he's attractive_ , Al smiled.

                "I have a contract with that pup's family," the Clan Leader argued. "My Alpha-pup was promised a mate—"

                "He cannot have mine."

                Once the Low-Landers had reluctantly untied him, Ivan took Al's hand in his. Al's smile was big and giddy. He couldn't help it, he felt jubilant. He squeezed Ivan's hand and stepped up beside him, wanting to be closer to him, attracted to the Alpha's aggression and unchallenged strength. He laid his head against Ivan's tense bicep and hugged his arm and looked admiringly up at him. He didn't care who was watching or what they thought of him anymore. He wanted them to see he and Ivan together, especially the other Omegas. He felt possessive of the Alpha in the way of a claimed but unmated Omega. There was a note of warning in his eyes, but it was dwarfed by his happiness. He took a deep breath of his Alpha's enticing scent and sighed in contentment.

                _No one is going to take you from me_ , _and no one is going to take me from you_.

                "Vader," said Lars.

                Al felt the warning rumble in Ivan's throat and he purred in reply.

                "The contract—" said the Clan Leader.

                "—is worthless," Lars finished.

                An apprehensive hush seized the Low-Landers, whose storehouses were now ruined, emptied, and who were facing a winter of starvation if the Islanders' contract was nullified. Al felt a sad flutter in his stomach as he surveyed the crowd. They looked like refugees in their own house. He saw Omega-parents holding their pups close, and Alphas exchange wearisome looks with other farmers and hunters.

                "It doesn't have to be worthless," said Matt.

                Al looked at his brother in amazement. When had Matt ever spoken-out in front of a crowd unbidden before?

                "It can still benefit us both," he said to Lars. "We could rewrite it."

                " _Pah_!" the Clan Leader barked. "An Omega—write a trade contract?" He regarded Matt with a bemused grin. "My dear, I admire your ambition, but you do not honestly think that you can—"

                "I can," Matt said indignantly, "because I did it before. Who do you think translated the first one?"

                (Matt didn't mention from _which_ language he had translated it, Al noted. The Low-Landers still didn't know that Francis was a Southerner, and it seemed like Matt was trying to preserve that fact. _My brother the diplomat_ , Al thought proudly. _Huh._ )

                "You know the contract?" Lars asked in surprise.

                Matt smiled. "Every word," he confirmed. "We can rewrite it together for the benefit of everyone. It won't be one-sided. My clan will have finished reaping the harvest by now and know exactly how much food can be spared for your clan. It might be lean, but it should be enough to last the winter. You can pay us back with labour in the spring. If the growing season is plentiful and we pool our land and resources, we'll have doubled our gain and profit in a couple of years. My clan has land yours can work, and your clan has skills that mine needs. What do you say? Do you want to be partners, Lars van den Berg? _Business_ partners?" Matt smiled.

                Lars took a moment to wordlessly consult his hunters, all of whom nodded curtly. The Low-Landers still had their pride, after all, no matter how dire the circumstance or how desperately they needed aid. It was something that everyone in the hall seemed to understand, except for the greedy Clan Leader, who was sputtering in confusion, trying to regain control. ("Wait now, just wait a minute! I haven't agreed to anything yet!" he said.) Al almost pitied him his position—still the leader, but no longer fit to lead. His recent bad decisions only confirmed how much the clan was in need of new leadership, and Al had no doubt that Lars would not disappoint.

                _He really cares about his family_ , _all of them_. _He'll make a good Clan Leader_. _And an honest trade partner_.

                He almost felt bad for the current Clan Leader, who would be forced to abdicate sooner than he wanted, the future of his bloodline still unsecured, but if Al had learnt anything political from his adventures, it was the difference between monarchy and democracy—absolute power versus shared power—and found himself an avid supporter of the latter.

                _Your time is over_ , he thought of the Clan Leader, who was gaping at his Alpha-pup in disbelief. It provoked a picture of his own family and what they would do and say when he and Matt returned to them. He wondered how they would react to each Omega's new Alpha-mate and what roles Gil and Ivan would find within the Islanders' clan? He wondered, but he didn't worry. He saw the proof of the future standing there in the form of Lars, brave enough to break tradition. He saw it in the form of Matt, the pregnant diplomat, proving that someone could be more than one thing. He saw it in the form of Gil, who would—he suspected—never truly let go of his history and forever serve as a reminder of how important past lessons were. He saw it in the form of Ivan, who was _his_ _future_. And he smiled.

                _It's time for a new generation to take over_ , he thought. And he almost felt bad for the old Clan Leader of the Low Countries, who didn't—couldn't—understand why it was happening, why it was needed.

                He _almost_ felt bad, but not quite.

                Lars offered his hand to Matt like he had done to Gil, an Alpha accepting another on equal terms. "Business partners," he agreed, smiling now as well. "It would be an honour, Matthew Kirkland."

* * *

A celebration was held that evening in the spirit of fortune and friendship. The food and drink was rationed, but the spirit was hopeful. Not every Low-Lander was keen to trust an Omega who had betrayed them—or rather, betrayed their heir for another Alpha—but the promise of rescue outweighed any blatant animosity, and Lars' hunters were too loyal to their leader's decisions to challenge the turn-of-events. Not that Al was paying any attention. He was sitting in front of a roaring fire on Ivan's lap, his arms looped around the Alpha, his cheek pressed to the top of his head. He felt warm for the first time in weeks—so warm he was flushed—and, though he hadn't eaten a proper meal for many days, he wasn't hungry. Not for food.

                "It's settled," said Gil, striding over. "As soon as Matt and Lars come to an agreement with the trade contract, he and I are leaving."

                Al cocked an eyebrow. "And we're not?" he joked.

                "No," said Matt, joining them, "not just yet."

                Al frowned in confusion. His head felt blurry.

                Matt leant in and whispered: "I think you and Ivan should find a room, Al. You're in pre-Heat, and you won't want to be in Heat on a ship—trust me."

                "I—I am?" Al blinked in astonishment. Then his face split into a relieved smile. "Oh, thank the gods," he said, pressing his forehead to Ivan's chest. He peeked up at Matt. "How can you tell?"

                Matt merely cocked an eyebrow at his brother, who was rubbing himself wantonly against Ivan, whose lap he was perched in. "Omega's intuition," he said sarcastically.

                Gil chuckled, then said: "And you're starting to smell like a buffet. You won't make it to the ship."

                Ivan growled.

                Gil shrugged. "What? It's true. Take him somewhere safe," he advised. "The negotiations aren't finished yet, and the last thing Matt needs is a fight breaking out."

                Ivan opened his mouth to reply, but Al kissed it shut. "We're going," he said, without looking at his brothers. He couldn't take his eyes off of Ivan, even as they stood. They left the Great House, but not before Al called over-the-shoulder: "I'll see you at home, Mattie!" without a shred of doubt in his tone. He barely registered Matt's reply, which wished them both a swift, safe journey, or Gil's reply, which wished them something much less innocent, and then Al's world was only Ivan.

                The Omega felt like he was in a dream as they entered the guesthouse, giving no thought to the last time he had slept in this room, or the changes the flood had left. He didn't care that the walls were water-stained and smelled a bit like wood-rot; he didn't care that it was cold—he couldn't feel it anyway; he didn't care that the bed was nothing more than a sleeping-roll, the bottom insulated with a layer of straw, and piled high with furs and blankets to make it less unbearable. He didn't care because none of it mattered. A bed, a cave, a sleeping-roll in a refugee camp—Al didn't care where he was, only whom he was with. Finally, _finally._

                "Wait," said Ivan.

                Al paused in undressing, already half-naked. "What is it?" he asked. "Is something wrong?"

                "Yes."

                He stilled. Had be misread Ivan? Was the guestroom not good enough for him? Should Al be building a nest?

                Ivan chuckled. "Relax, little one. I only want to give you this."

                Before Al could speak, Ivan looped a necklace over his head.

                "Let me do at least one part of this claiming right."

                "A gift? For me?" Al asked in disbelief. No one had ever given him a gift before, let alone a claiming-gift. He ran his fingers slowly over the fine gold chain, feeling each delicate loop. It must have cost a fortune to have it crafted. Incredulously, he looked up at Ivan. "How did you—? When did you—?"

                "When you and Matt were bathing," he said, "I traded my sword to the goldsmith."

                Al's exploration stopped abruptly. "You—you _what_? But that sword was—"

                "Not something I ever wanted. It was my past," Ivan interrupted, smiling now. He reached for Al's necklace and held the wooden pendent up for the Omega to see. "You're my future, Al."

                Al saw the pendent and happy tears flooded his eyes. A little oak bear swung from the chain. He laughed and clutched it and kissed Ivan over-and-over again in thanks, in wholehearted acceptance.

                And then the time for words was over and it was happening, without pretense or planning. Planning had not fared well for either of them in the past. They ignored the setting and dispensed with all talking. There was no need to ask if either of them was ready. No need to share secrets or make promises. It was all done—it had all been done for weeks, for months. _Fuck planning_ , Al thought as the bedding yielded gently beneath their combined weight. _Fuck savouring the moment and making a memory. Fuck foreplay_. He and Ivan already had enough first memories to last a lifetime, and both had been ready and willing for too long. _I'm not waiting_ , he thought, kissing Ivan, conveying his feelings and deep, un-sated need. He tasted the Alpha's tongue and felt his firm lips; he smelled his sharp spearmint scent, like sweetened ice. He felt his body, muscles hard as rock moving beneath scarred skin soft as cured leather. He felt his hair, thick and coarse on his head; fine and fair everywhere else. He felt the Alpha's big hands grope him and his long limbs wrap around him, engulfing him. And he felt the Alpha's long, wet cock engorged in want. Al mewled in desire and pressed himself further into Ivan's touch. He wanted more of it. And he wanted it now.

                _I'm done waiting. I'm taking what I want. This time_ , _I'm not letting go._

                It was a bit clumsy, at first. And despite Ivan's promise not to hurt Al, he did. Being in pre-Heat was not the same as being in Heat, and, though Al's body was close—only hours shy of lubricated—the couple was much too eager to wait any longer. The friction of Ivan's stiff cock sliding into Al's defensive body pulled a sharp yelp from the Omega, which gave the Alpha pause.

                "Al—?"

                Al shifted his weight and spread his legs a little wider. He could feel his body slowly yielding to the intrusion, trying to compensate. "Keep going," he begged, his voice already laboured. He clenched Ivan's shoulders. "Go slow."

                Ivan kissed his lips and cheek and neck as he moved, pushing inside the squirming Omega inch-by-inch until his cock was entirely sheathed. Al let out a small gasp, then begged a halt. He was sweaty and panting with the effort. His skin was hot and flushed and his insides felt stretched and full. Very full.

                "Gods, you're big," he moaned, digging his fingers into the Alpha's taut skin.

                "I'm sorry," said Ivan half-heartedly. His eyes were closed tight and he pressed his forehead to Al's shoulder, fighting his fickle self-control.

                "I'm not," Al whispered. He kissed Ivan's temple and let his lips linger. "I love you _and_ your big Alpha cock."

                Ivan laughed; Al felt the heat of his breath, then the press of his mouth. "I love you, too, little one."

* * *

Ivan tried to be patient. Oh, gods—he _really_ did try. But with Al's permission, and he, himself, buried to the hilt in the Omega's hot, wet body, he couldn't wait any longer. His heart was pounding, his blood was pumping, and his instincts were screaming at him to take what belonged to him. _Take him_ , _he's yours. Finally yours. Only yours. Mate him. Put your mark on him_ , _inside of him. Do what you've wanted to do since the first time you saw him_.

                _The first time I saw him_... he thought, feeling dazed.

                He remembered Al then, cold and hungry and naked, but not scared. Al had never been scared. It's what had drawn him to the Omega since the beginning. Al's indomitable will. That will is what had saved him. It was the reason Al was here now, safe and happy and glowing with health. _And arousal_ , he thought as Al rubbed his gorgeous body suggestively against him. _Let's not forget that._ The tension in his weeping cock grew thicker, harder to bear. It wanted so much more than what Al's teasing was giving it. He could feel the Omega's insides growing wetter and more pliable as the seconds ticked by; he could smell it, and the salty-sweet smell of his young, fertile mate drove him wild with lust.

                "Alfred," he said, his voice a burly growl. His hands were eagerly engaged in pampering the Omega, stroking him harder and faster until Al's hips began to rock, thrusting into Ivan's touch. (He made the most beautiful noises, Ivan thought.) "I can't... I need to... please..."

                Al kissed his lips. "It's okay, sweetheart. I've got you. I'm going to make you feel good." Then he pushed Ivan onto his back.

                Ivan let himself sink into the bedding as Al switched their positions so that he sat across the Alpha's lap, his long, golden legs straddling him, impaled by the Alpha's cock. He braced his hands on Ivan's shoulders, using him as leverage as he pushed himself up, then down. Up, down. Up, down. Al gasped and moaned, and at first Ivan thought it might be hurting his Omega, but he was soon too invested in the moment to care. He grabbed Al's rhythmic hips and began jerking more forcefully, encouraging the Omega to move faster and sink deeper into every thrust. Ivan's world became a blur of sound and scent. It wasn't how he had planned to mate Al for the first time. He had wanted it to be soft and sweet and slow enough to properly worship the Omega he treasured above all else, but somewhere between getting captured by Easterners and getting captured by Southerners that plan had lost its fairytale charm.

                _I don't care where we are or how we do it_ , he thought now, _I only care that I'm with you_.

                And then the Alpha thought nothing at all. As blissful climaxed reached him, he could only feel his love for Al and Al's love for him and the word _together_ resonated somewhere in the back of his foggy mind, but it was felt more than thought, and known more than hoped. He held on until the last drops of his seed ejaculated into Al's body, then exhaled in deep satisfaction and exhaustion. Slowly he opened his eyes—and was met by the most beautiful Omega he had ever seen. There was Al— _his_ Al—flushed pink and writhing in audible pleasure as he fervently rode the last dregs of his own climax, which seemed to go on forever.

                Al collapsed onto Ivan's chest, panting and trembling. Ivan could feel the Omega's heart beating against his and it was the most perfect thing in the world. He looped his arms around the weakened Omega, resting them on Al's lower-back, and Al nuzzled and kissed his neck.

                "I love you, my Alpha-mate," he murmured happily.

                "I love you, too, my Omega-mate."

                And just like that, they fell asleep.

* * *

**THE ISLES**

**TWO DAYS LATER**

Arthur hefted the axe overhead and swung it down forcefully, cleaving a log in two. He kicked half of it aside, then straightened the other and chopped it again, again, again until it was too small to be used as anything but kindling. By the time he lowered the axe he was standing amidst a field of splinters, his tormented heart racing. It was a grey day, a thick fog hovering low over the moors. He wiped the sweat from his face, pushed back his hair, then looked up.

                A fist squeezed his heart. The shape he saw emerging from the fog was an Omega shape. It was Matt's shape.

                _It can't be_ , _I'm imagining it_ , he thought, too afraid to hope. He clenched the axe. _I'm seeing what's not there. I'm seeing what my heart wants to see. I've finally gone mad._

                _Matthew is gone._

"Matthew is..."

                He watched, paralyzed, as the Omega walked cautiously to the edge of the garden, then stopped. There was an Alpha with him, but Arthur didn't acknowledged him; barely even glanced at him. He didn't care about the Alpha, only the Omega. The young Omega who looked so much like his lost pup. _I'm seeing a ghost_. But he didn't want it to disappear, so he didn't move and he didn't dare breathe, too afraid the beautiful illusion would vanish if he so much as blinked.

                "Dad?"

                A voice. A real, live voice. Matt's voice.

                The Omega smiled. "I'm home."

                The axe fell to the ground.

                " _Francis_!" Arthur screamed. Seconds later he collided with Matt. His hands touched a solid, living body—not a ghost; not a dream—and he wrapped his arms around the Omega. He smelled Matt's scent and felt his breath and body-heat and stroked his silky-soft curls—he loved those curls; he missed those curls—and he gazed lovingly into the gentle violet eyes he thought he would never see again. Then he broke down and cried. Tears spilled down his cheeks as sobs racked him and he cried and sniffled like a swaddling-pup, but he didn't care. " _Alive_!" he gasped. That's all he cared about. " _My precious pup_ , _you're alive_!"

                He didn't ask why or how Matt was alive, because he didn't care. He cradled Matt's face in his hands and he kissed his Omega-pup's cheeks. His hands were shaking.

                "Dad," Matt cried as well, "I'm sorry I worried you. I didn't mean to. I'm so, so sorry."

                "Oh, my darling." Arthur pulled Matt back into his greedy arms. "I thought I'd lost you forever. I thought you were gone. I thought... Oh, Matthew, I've been so afraid," he confessed.

                "I'm sorry."

                "No, no," said Arthur sternly. "It's not your fault. It was never your fault. It was me—"

                "Dad. Don't."

                Arthur hiccupped; his voice shuddered. He shook his head. "It doesn't matter anymore—nothing does," he agreed. "You're home now, Matthew. _That's_ what matters. You're here with me. You're safe. You're _alive._ "

* * *

Gil smiled as he watched the Omega-father and pup's heartfelt reunion. Both of them were crying and making high-pitched noises of happy disbelief and clutching each other, too afraid to let go. _Omegas_ , he thought, keeping to a safe distance, yet secretly endeared by the scene. If it were possible for him to feel his Alpha-father's arms around him again—even just a pat on the head—he wouldn't be in a hurry to let go either.

                _I'm going to hug my pups every fucking day_ , he decided, then and there. _They're going to know without a doubt that I love them._

                Then a howl erupted.

                " _Mathieu_!"

                Francis Bonnefoi looked like an older, Alpha version of Matt, but with Al's bright blue eyes. He was pretty for an Alpha, even if he looked a little tired. Not that it stopped him from tearing across the garden like a soldier charging into battle. Gil took a step back to prevent being knocked over. Unlike Arthur, Francis didn't pause to stare in shock at Matt's reappearance. His Alpha nose did not need to second-guess his pup's scent. He opened up his arms and pulled Matt into an embrace, catching Arthur in the middle.

                " _Mathieu_ — _Oh_ , _my Mathieu_!" he cried. And then there was more hugging and kissing and laughing in giddy, happy relief.

                "How?" Francis asked. "How is this possible?"

                Matt smiled. "It's a long story, Papa. But Gil—"

                Then Francis went rigid. He shooed Arthur back a step, much to Arthur's dismay, and leant in to better smell Matt. He was so thorough, his nose almost touched the Omega's skin. Then he looked over Matt's shoulder at Gil, only then noticing him, and his brow furrowed in disbelief, then displeasure. His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared as he registered Gil's unmistakable Alpha-scent and his gaze fell to Matt's midsection. A growl escaped him, pulled from the back of his throat like a rumble of thunder; not loud, but threatening. And he whirled. He turned on Gil so fast, his teeth bared, his blue eyes blazing fury, that the Westerner took a step back—

                —and hit something solid.

                " _Who the fuck are you_?" said a deep, angry brogue.

                Francis closed the gap and, suddenly, Gil was surrounded. _I didn't even hear them approach_ , he thought, too focused on Matt's Alpha-father to notice his four mean-looking uncles. They all wore identical scowls, but the family head was not hard to discern. Scott Kirkland was the biggest Islander Gil had ever seen, tall enough to look Gil in the eye and as solid as a brick. The wiry Westerner did not relish a blow from one of those blunt fists if it came to a fight.

                "Stop," said Matt, pushing into the pentagon. "Papa, Uncle Scott—this is Gilbert. My Alpha-mate."

                It took a lot of explaining—interrupted with more smiles and hugs ("Mattie, honey, we missed you!")—before Scott's stance reluctantly relaxed, followed by Owen, Liam, and Patrick. Francis remained worryingly stiff. Gil thought he might burst a blood-vessel if he continued to glare with such ire. Tactfully, the Westerner said nothing throughout the exchange, deciding he had a better chance of _not_ getting punched if Matt did the talking. He merely listened as the Alphas argued about where to place blame and what to do now. _For a family that values unity_ , _they sure bicker a lot_ , he noted. The only person who didn't speak was Arthur. He stood beside Matt, one arm wrapped securely around his Omega-pup's shoulders. Then, when everything was finally said and done, he asked one simple, lonely question:

                "Matthew, where is Alfred?"

                The Alphas went abruptly still, awaiting Matt's reply.

                "He's perfectly fine, I promise," said Matt. "He and his Alpha-mate are safe in the Low Countries. They'll be home soon."

                "His _Alpha-mate_?"

                Arthur looked shocked. Francis looked sick.

                The Kirkland Alphas exchanged an incredulous look. "We are talking about _Alfred_ , right?"

                Matt laughed, but his next words were aimed at his parents. "Yes. Al found himself a wonderful Alpha, truly. He saved Al's life, just like Gil saved mine—"

                "Yes, about that," said Francis skeptically. His eyes swivelled to meet Gil's. "I don't like it," he said bluntly. "I don't like what you've told me, and I don't like _you_. Just what kind of Alpha are you? How dare you take advantage of such a young, impressionable Omega! How dare you claim _my_ pup without my blessing!"

                "Papa, it's not like that, I told you—"

                "How dare you impregnate him!" Francis seethed.

                "Pregnant?" said Arthur, looking at Matt in mild surprise.

                Matt nodded. "I told you it was a long story, Dad. But yes, pregnant. And very happy to be," he added, in case there was doubt—which there was.

                Francis shook his head and spat at Gil. "You _beast_!" he growled. "You filthy _cur_! You selfish, underhanded Western—"

                Gil braced himself for a strike, but Matt quickly inserted himself.

                "Papa," he said in a gentle, soothing voice. "Please don't be angry. This is a good thing. I love Gil. I _chose_ him to be my Alpha-mate. I _wanted_ him to mate me."

                Francis bristled. " _Him_? No. I don't like it, Mathieu. I—"

                "Papa, please listen." Matt took Francis' hand and stroked it as he spoke. His look was soft and coy. "I'm so, so happy because of Gil. I've never been happy like this before. Please don't take it away from me. _Please_ ," he begged.

                Gil saw it the moment Francis surrendered. His blue eyes softened when they met Matt's, revealing the truth. He only wanted what was best for his Omega-pups. All he had ever wanted was their happiness.

                Helplessly he looked to Arthur, who nodded in support. Then he heaved a deep, dramatic sigh.

                "Oh, but Mathieu, _chéri_ , he's a Westerner," he sulked. "He's a soldier. Are you absolutely _sure_ he's what you want? Because if you're not, your uncles and I will make him disappear," he threatened, glaring at Gil. "You're home now, _bébé_ , you're safe. You don't have to be afraid anymore—"

                "Papa," Matt interrupted. Deliberately, he pressed the Alpha's hand to his abdomen. "Grandpups," he said.

                Francis' face froze for a moment, then it transformed. " _Grandpups_!" he shouted in glee. "Oh! I didn't even think of— _Ah_!" he screeched like an Omega, waving a hand excitedly in front of his face. "Arthur! Arthur, _grandpups_!" he gushed, yanking both Omegas in for a joyous group hug.

                Gil caught Matt's laughing eye and nodded in approval. _Well played_ , schatz.

                Then it was finally his turn to speak.

                "You, Westerner," Scott demanded. His tone—his green eyes—left no room for discussion. He was the pack-leader, and if there was one thing Gil understood it was hierarchy. He knew what was expected of him if he wanted to join the Islander pack. He thought it would be hard, that it would feel wrong, like a betrayal to the West. But it didn't.

                Obediently, he knelt on the grass and bowed his head. Then he said:

                "I'm not good with words, but it doesn't matter, because I love Matt more than words can say. He's my life now. I'll love him and our pups until the day I die, and if I die trading my life for theirs then I'll go to the afterlife with no regrets. I'll live by your clan's customs and laws and yield to your authority if only you'll accept me. I'll protect this family like it's my own. And I will never stop trying to be the Alpha-mate that Matt deserves. This I swear," he vowed like a soldier. "This is a promise I will never break."

                Scott made him wait for a long time, but Gil didn't move. He didn't raise his head and he didn't glance up. He stayed in a submissive kneel, only guessing at the silent exchange going on overhead. Then—finally—Francis said:

                "I believe him."

                The moment Gil felt Scott's hand come to rest on his head, the fear and doubt went out of him. He thought of the last time someone had touched him like this, claiming him as theirs, and he bit back a smile. It had been such a long time ago—eight years—but in that moment of wordless acceptance, Gil felt like someone's Alpha-pup again. Not the lost soul he had felt like for so long, but someone who had finally found his way home to where he belonged.

                "Welcome to the Kirkland family, Gilbert Beilschmidt."

* * *

**ONE WEEK LATER**

The first person Al saw upon arriving home was Matt.

                It was barely dawn and Matt looked a bit pale as he greeted his brothers at the door, so Al blamed his being awake on something pregnancy related. They hugged, and Matt congratulated he and Ivan on their pair-bonding, and Al proudly showed Matt the necklace his Alpha-mate had given him. ("Oh, it's beautiful!") Ivan smiled, but he stayed silent, distracted by the threat of pending discovery. His violet eyes scanned the main room, lingering on windows and the back door, Al noticed; searching for an escape route if needed. Gently, Al squeezed Ivan's hand in reassurance.

                "They're going to hate me," Ivan had said the night before as they boarded a boat.

                "No more than Gilbert," Al shrugged.

                "Alfred." Ivan's look was stern with unease. "I don't want your family to hate me," he confessed.

                "Ivan, sweetheart," Al said, patting the Alpha's arm, "they're not going to hate you. My family's going to be so relieved that I actually _have_ an Alpha-mate, they won't care who you are."

                Ivan shook his head as if Al had misunderstood. "You underestimate how loved you are, little one."

                _Maybe I have_ , Al considered, now. _Maybe I've never really appreciated what I have_. Once upon a time, Al had wanted nothing more than to leave his dull home life and embark on a grand adventure. He had wanted to have something to tell that no one else in the pack did. He had wanted to become something that no one else was. But now that adventure had been had and lessons learnt, he couldn't deny how good it felt to be back. Back to the uninspired two-level house; back to a foggy landscape of hills and rocks and superstition; back to a monotonous routine of chores and lectures; back to secluded nights with only his boisterous family for company. Back to feeling safe and loved and knowing that, no matter what, he would always be taken care of.  He looked around the room and recognized all of the comforts he had taken for granted before—everything from Scott's old tartan to Francis' accounts books to Arthur's unfinished needlework was exactly where it should be, as if Al had merely stepped out for an afternoon stroll. He took a deep breath and he smelled wood and wool and dried fruit baked into shortbread, and he blinked happy tears from his eyes.

                _Home_. _I'm finally home_.

                Then Gil's sharp shadow appeared at the base of the stairs. _Still a light sleeper_ , Al thought. He took a deep whiff of Al's new scent and smirked.

                "Shut it, Beilschmidt," said Al pre-emptively.

                Gil opened his mouth to reply, feigning hurt, but was suddenly whacked from behind.

                "I heard voices," said Arthur unhappily. "It's five o'clock in the bloody morning, who the hell—"

                Then he saw Al and the words got lost in his throat.

                The Omega's eyes flooded shamelessly with tears as he shoved Gilbert hastily aside, rapidly descending the last few steps to reach the ground-level. He flung himself at Al and then Al could feel nothing but his Omega-father's skinny body— _he's lost weight_ , he thought guiltily—covered in an ugly nightshirt that was so threadbare it was soft as a cloud. Al had clutched at and cried onto this nightshirt more times than he could remember. He bowed his head to Arthur's shoulder and breathed in the sweet, homey scent of him. He heard Arthur gasp and felt his body shudder, but otherwise he was silent as he cried. He kissed his Omega-pup and he squeezed him so hard it hurt Al's ribs. It felt like Arthur was holding on for dear life, but it was not unwanted. It was very, _very_ wanted.

                "I'm home, Dad," Al said softly, a lump of emotion in his throat.

                Finally, Arthur pulled back. His eyes were red and his nose was redder. Al had only ever seen Arthur cry once before—only three months ago, but it seemed like so much longer. He had cried when Al and Matt had left, and he was crying now that they had returned. For a long uninterrupted moment he stared at Al, memorizing him, his gentle hands cupping Al's bright-eyed face.

                Then he smacked Al's cheek. Not hard, but enough to take Al by surprise. And he said: "You're late, Alfred."

                Al's smile widened, and a single, happy tear fell from his eye.

                "Sorry, Dad. I won't do it again."

* * *

The Omegas' quiet reunion was interrupted when Al's Alpha-father descended into the scene, causing such a ruckus that soon the ground-level was teeming with Alphas all trying to hug Al at once. Ivan was afraid they would smother his poor Omega-mate, but Al's laughter joined the cacophony as rough hugs and kisses were exchanged. It looked more like a hunting celebration than a heartfelt reunion. (Ivan saw Gil tug Matt protectively out of the way.) The only Alpha who wasn't shouting but cooing instead was Francis, who suffered the pushing and shoving of his brothers-by-mating-law if only so he didn't have to let his Omega-pup go.

                " _Oh_ , _my Alfred_! _My precious Alfred_!" he cried, rubbing his face to Al's.

                Then Al was scooped into the arms of his redheaded uncle, whose hug swung him clean off his feet. "Alfred!" Scott boomed. "Glad to have you back, pup!"

                Ivan watched it all from a safe distance, Al's joy easing his nerves. That is, until Al struggled free of the mob and thrust a hand out toward him.

                "This is Ivan," he said, beaming. "My Alpha-mate."

                Ivan froze like a deer in lantern-light as everyone turned to look at him. He could already hear the refusals and furious growls as they chased him off, proclaiming him unfit to be Al's Alpha-mate. He was an Eastern deserter with no family, no wealth, and no way to prove his credentials. They had no way of knowing he was a good hunter and craftsman; no way to know he would be a good provider for them. They had no reason to think he was anything more than the sum of his size and strength, just like the Easterners. To them, that's all Ivan had ever been. Even now he was significantly the biggest Alpha in the house, but he also felt like the meekest. If Francis Bonnefoi rejected him as Al's mate, or if Scott chased him away from the pack, what then? Would Al follow him back into exile at the risk of being disowned? Would Ivan be responsible for ruining Al's family reunion, his future? Would Al eventually resent him for not being the Alpha-mate his family had wanted for him—

                Scott let out his breath. "Well _of course_ you are," he said sarcastically. "Why _wouldn't_ you be a great Eastern brute? Because _none_ of the Kirkland Omegas can be satisfied with a nice, well-bred Islander for an Alpha-mate. _Oh_ , _no_. That would be _way_ too conventional for them.

                "So welcome, Ivan," he spread out his arms, "to Allistor Kirkland's home for wayward Mainlanders."

                Ivan merely stared, unsure what to say. _Is this a joke_?

                Then he saw Al's bedazzling smile.

                When it became apparent that Scott's grudging welcome was at its end, Arthur elbowed Francis in the ribs.

                "Ivan," he said, stepping forward. His look was formal—or, as formal as anyone could be dressed in his bed-clothes—but he had Al's striking sapphire-blue eyes. Ivan focused on them, holding his Alpha-father-by-mating-law's steady gaze until Francis held out his hand.

                Ivan didn't know what was expected of him, so he took Francis' hand and firmly shook it.

                The moment Al burst out laughing, he knew that he had done the wrong thing. Francis yanked his hand free and rubbed it, a look of displeasure on his disgruntled face.

                "You're supposed to bow for a blessing," Matt whispered helpfully, although he was hard to hear over Gil's snickering.

                "Oh." Ivan glanced at Al, then Francis. "I didn't know—"

                "Never-mind," Francis dismissed. He eyed Ivan skeptically and then shook his head in defeat. "Welcome to our family, Ivan," he said. And patted the Easterner's head.


	26. Epilogue

**FOUR MONTHS LATER**

Ivan, this looks wonderful!" Matt praised, leaning down to study the architectural drawing. He had wedged himself in between Ivan and Scott, who were sitting at the kitchen table, a cuppa tea in his hand and a six-month's swollen belly protruding in front of him. Arthur had already dismissed the possibility of it holding twins—much to Gil and Al's disappointment—but Al couldn't believe that a single pup took up so much space. ("He's going to hurt like a bitch coming out," he had tactlessly said to Matt. "Gods, Westerner pups are _big_!" Matt had rolled his eyes, then countered: "Yeah, good luck with any Easterner pups you conceive." Al had shuddered at the very thought and hadn't mentioned Matt's size again.)

                "Is this a nursery?" asked the Omega-father-to-be, pointing at the drawing.

                "Yes," Ivan confirmed. "It'll be beside your bedchamber with an adjoining door. On the other side, just here," he indicated, dragging his finger across the thick lines, "is another bedchamber for when the pups are old enough to leave the nursery. This corridor will connect to a side-stairwell, which leads to the kitchen in the middle. There will be doors here and here, but none on the second-level, so you needn't worry about the safety of your pups."

                Matthew smiled, very pleased.

                Scott harrumphed. "I don't know about these renovations. I still think that we should be building up, not out. And how do you know these pillars won't collapse beneath the weight of new walls?"

                "They won't," Ivan promised, a pinch exasperated. "I know what I'm doing. I'm good with my hands."

                "Yes, you are," Al purred teasingly from across the table.

                "Alfred, _chéri_ , please," said Francis, sitting beside him. "You'll upset my appetite."

                Al rolled his eyes. "It's been four months, Papa. I'm mated, get over it.

                "And soon Ivan and I will have our very own house," he added smugly. "Ah, I can't wait! Why Mattie and Gil want to stay and live here in the pack-leader's house is a mystery."

                Gil swallowed a mouthful of jam biscuit, and shamelessly said: "Six live-in pupsitters, that's why."

                Al laughed, but he knew the real reason Gil and Matt were staying in the pack-leader's house was much more secretive. And political. It had already become apparent to Al that Scott was starting to groom the Westerner to be the next pack-leader. Al had no doubts that Gil was qualified for the job, but he had still felt a bit insulted that _his_ Alpha-mate hadn't been chosen. But a late-night conversation with Ivan had quelled it:

                "Scott should have at least _considered_ you to be the pack-leader," Al had said, brooding. "I don't see why Gil is a better candidate than you. It's not fair."

                "It is," Ivan replied, surprising the Omega. "Scott approached me and asked if I would support Gilbert as the pack-leader, and I said yes."

                "But why? You'd be just as good a pack-leader as he would," Al praised. "You'd be better!"

                Ivan had chuckled. "I appreciate your loyalty, little one. But no, I wouldn't be—if for no other reason than I don't _want_ to be. I don't want to lead. Gilbert does, so let him have it."

                "But—"

                " _This_ will be my project for the next couple of years," he said, showing Al the architectural drawings for the first time: one for the pack-leader's house, and one for just he and Al. "I would rather focus on building us a home _without_ the stress of politics."

                Al fingered his bear pendent as he looked at the drawings, now. He had been so proud when Ivan had first presented his ideas to the rest of the family. _My Alpha-mate is so talented_ , he had thought—then _and_ now. _My Alpha-mate is the best Alpha-mate ever_!

                _Alpha-mate._

Gods, he loved that he could legitimately call Ivan his Alpha-mate now. It had taken much too long.

                _Alpha-mate. Alpha-mate_ , he crooned to himself.

                Ivan caught his eye and frowned, wondering at his mate's blatant giddiness.

                Al smiled smugly back.

* * *

You're smiling," Matt whispered to Al, who joined him at the kitchen window.

                "Yeah," Al acknowledged, "I do that a lot now."

                Together, the Omegas crawled onto the wide window-ledge—Al with considerably more grace than Matt—and sat with their backs pressed to the shudders and their legs entangled. Contently, Matt rested his head against Al's and surveyed the crowded kitchen: Owen tuning a stringed instrument in the corner; Liam reading a hunting report, Patrick aiming a throwing-knife at a target on the wall; Arthur yelling at Patrick and then cursing artfully to himself as he stirred in a deep cauldron; Francis offering cooking advice that got him kicked; Francis adding unhelpful amateur suggestions as Ivan and Scott argued over architectural improvements; and Gil leaning against the opposite window, which was open to let out steam. He was looking out across the rolling moors like he already owned them—like there was nowhere in the world he would rather belong.

                _I know how you feel_ , _Gil. There's nowhere else I want to be either._

It wasn't perfect, and it didn't feel like the happily-ever-after ending of a fairytale, but Matt was glad. He had never believed in fairytales anyway, and he certainly didn't want to know the ending of his and Gil's story so soon. The thing that made him happiest was the simple, wonderful fact that his home finally felt like home. He didn't feel like a ghost wasting away his days, alone and ignored and taken advantage of. He didn't feel lost anymore. There would still be trials and expectations of him, but for the first time in his life he felt ready to face them. He no longer felt like he was going to break. Like the floodwaters that had once terrified him, the fear and anxiety he had lived with for so long was gradually starting to recede. And if and when he ever did doubt himself again—? Well, he had a whole family who loved him enough to prove him wrong.

                As if cued by Matt's thoughts, Al reached over and took his twin's hand. He didn't say a word, but he smiled.

                Matt smiled back.

                "Has Gil talked to you yet?" he asked, keeping his voice low and his tone conversational.

                "No. Why?" Al asked, his curiosity peaked.

                "Oh, it's nothing—never-mind," Matt teased, diverting his gaze.

                Al bumped his shoulder. "Mattie, tell me. What does Gil want to talk about?"

                "Well, you know that Uncle Scott wants Gil to be the next pack-leader, right? Papa thinks he's a good choice, too, even if he won't verbally admit it. I think he _is_ warming up to Gil, though. Albeit, slowly. I overheard them talking in French yesterday—well, _talking_ is a generous description for it; Gil doesn't know much beyond military jargon and curse words—but it's still good progress. Anyway..." Matt shrugged, "nothing is official yet. The Clan Leader still needs to approve Scott's choice, but if Gil wins the position then you might find yourself rather busy, Al."

                His brother's brow furrowed, not following the thread, so Matt elaborated:

                 "Gil will need a second-in-command," he said. "And guess who he wants?"

                Al's blue eyes widened. " _Me—_?" he gasped too loudly.

                Arthur looked up, wondering at his pups' whispering. He eyed them as if they were plotting something devious before returning to his work.

                Matt pressed a hand to Al's mouth. Al's blue eyes sparkled.

                "Gil wants _me_?" he asked more quietly.

                "Maybe." Matt winked. "But you didn't hear it from me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK-YOU for reading. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated :)
> 
> Thank-you to everyone who read, reviewed, and enjoyed Part Two of "The Call of the Wild". You all have the patience of saints! :) For those interested in reading more, I'll be continuing the series with Part Three. Because what's a Medieval AU without a Northern invasion? ;)
> 
> In the meantime, I invite you all to read my one-shot: "Once Upon A Time In The North", which is the unofficial Prologue of Part Three. n_n


	27. Second Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone interested, the unofficial prologue of this arc is a separate one-shot called: "Once Upon A Time In The North". However, you do not need to read it to continue reading Part Three of "The Call of the Wild". :) Also, because Faroe Islands and Greenland don't have official Hetalia human-names, I found these on the Internet. :)

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):

DENMARK           Mikkel Densen  
NORWAY             Bjørn Thomassen  
FAROE ISLANDS   Andrias Densen  
ICELAND             Emil Densen  
GREENLAND        Kujâk Densen  
SWEDEN              Berwald Oxenstierna  
FINLAND             Tino Väinämöinen  
SEALAND            Peter Oxenstierna

* * *

**NORTHERN CLANS**

Mikkel stood over the bed he had just ripped to shreds. It was _his_ bed, in _his_ private rooms in the longhouse, in the clan that _his_ family ruled, but it was not his blood soaking the furs. It wasn't even the blood of his kin and for that he was glad. He would have hated to kill a kinsman, no matter the slight. Blood-ties and verbal oaths were sacred in the North. But for this he would have forsaken any vow, be it to gods or mortals or both. This was not just a slight; it was a crime. It was a monstrosity. The body that lay sprawled on its face with its chest cavity torn open belonged to an Alpha of good blood but a bad soul, and Mikkel was not sorry he had killed him. He was only sorry he had not done it with his bare hands.

                " _Mick_?" Bjørn whispered.

                Mikkel dropped the knife and knelt in front of his Omega-mate.

                Bjørn was shaking, a hand pressed firmly to his mouth because he didn't want the sleeping pups to hear his fast, uneven breaths. His violet eyes were wide, reflecting moonlight in tears that didn't fall.

                Mikkel grabbed an un-bloodied blanket and draped it around the Omega, whose frock had been ripped open, then gathered him into his arms. "It's okay," he said, his voice a raw, angry growl. He rubbed Bjørn's back; to comfort himself or the Omega, he didn't know. He rubbed hard, absently rubbing the blood off his hands and onto the blanket. "It's okay, Norge—"

                "It's _not_ okay," Bjørn said, clutching the Alpha's shirt. His eyes flicked to the bed and back in panic. "He was the Clan Leader's heir—"

                "He was a monster!" Mikkel snarled, jerking Bjørn into a hug. He buried his nose in the Omega's pale-blonde hair, and vehemently said: "He deserved to die."

                "His clan won't think so." Bjørn's voice was quiet, but sharp. It cut like a knife. "They'll say you broke the law of guest right. The Clan Leader will demand your death to compensate, Mick. A life for a life."

                Mikkel shook his head. "I'm allowed to protect my Omega-mate and pups from danger. The law states—"

                "The law needs _proof_ , Mick, which we don't have. If you take this grievance to the jarls, you'll only expedite your own execution. They'll stone you."

                "Norge—"

                " _Think of your pups_." Bjørn pulled back, his eyes alight with fire and fear; violet glaring into royal-blue. His hands coiled tightly in Mikkel's shirt. "They need you," he said. "They need their Alpha-father _alive_. _I_ need you alive, so please, _please_ don't fight this. It's not worth it."

                Mikkel clenched his jaw and leant forward, pressing his forehead to Bjørn's. "Yes, _you_ are," he said.

                "Mick, _please_."

                "They'll find his body, Norge. They'll know I killed him. There's nothing I can do about that now."

                "I know."

                " _Then what_?" Mikkel snapped, desperately yielding to the Omega's judgement. " _What the fuck do we do_?"

                Bjørn tipped his head up and kissed Mikkel. Then he said:

                "Flee. We take our pups and we fucking flee."

* * *

Bjørn was not afraid of what had happened, but of what _would_ happen if they didn't leave. He was afraid—terrified—of the consequences Mikkel would face for what they had done.

                Mikkel packed their belongings, throwing half-a-dozen satchels over his shoulders and then headed down to the water. Bjørn went for the pups:

                "Andrias, Emil, Kujâk, wake up," he said, shaking them. " _Wake up_!"

                "Papa, what—? Why?"

                "Come on," said Bjørn, shoving armfuls of clothes at them. He began dressing little Kujâk even as the Alpha-pup yawned, blinking sleep from his eyes. His round arms, still soft with puppy-fat, flopped languidly as the Omega wrestled him into a shirt and sweater and coat, then wrapped a scarf around his neck and pulled up his hood. "We're leaving," he said, pulling Kujâk up and yanking his wool mittens on as he did. To the other two pups—an Alpha and an Omega, both who dressed themselves—he said: "Quickly, we're leaving, let's go."

                "But why?" asked Emil as his Omega-father ushered he and his brothers out the backdoor and into the night.

                A wide-bellied knaar bobbed at the shoreline, its sail unfurled. Mikkel loaded the satchels, supplies, and then his Alpha-pups inside.

                "Papa," Emil repeated. He grabbed Bjørn's sleeve. "What's going on? Why is Dad taking the knaar instead of the longship? And where is his crew? And why are _we_ going along?"

                Bjørn stopped and faced his Omega-pup. He cupped his cheek. "Later," he promised. "I'll explain everything later, my clever Omega-pup, but right now you just have to trust us. You have to listen to everything your Alpha-father says and not ask questions. No arguing, okay? _Okay_ —?" he insisted when Emil only stared, frightened by the urgency in Bjørn's eyes.

                "O-okay," Emil nodded. He took Bjørn's hand and they hurried to the boat.

                "Are we going on a voyage?" Kujâk was asking.

                "Yes, my brave little warrior," Mikkel smiled, patting the Alpha-pup's silky head. "This'll be your first voyage. Are you excited?"

                Kujâk nodded eagerly as Mikkel lowered him onto Andrias' lap. The oldest of Mikkel and Bjørn's pups—nine-years-old—looked wearily at his Alpha-father, his grey eyes harbouring a quiet understanding beyond his years. He was a stoic soul, but a sturdy one. Like a rock he weathered whatever task he was given. He wrapped his arms around Kujâk like ropes, meeting Mikkel's eyes and silently promising to guard his younger brothers when Mikkel couldn't.

                "Look, Papa!" Kujâk said gleefully, thrusting out his arms and waving them up-and-down, pretending to row. "I'm a member of Dad's crew now!"

                "Yes, I see that," Bjørn said absently, lifting Emil into the boat. Then he turned to Mikkel. _Ready_?

                Ready to flee? Ready to leave our home and clan and everything we know behind? Ready for an adventure?

                Mikkel nodded, but no sooner had he un-tethered the boat did the smile fall from his lips. Suddenly, he had an axe in his hand and had placed himself defensively in front of the boat, his sensitive nose reading a scent—a threat. Bjørn vaulted into the boat and grabbed a fishing-spear, then turned to face the shadows lurking nearby. Now that he knew what to listen for, he could hear cautious footsteps creeping over the forest floor, drawing closer; footsteps in the dead of a deep, dark night when footsteps had no business being heard. Mikkel growled loudly, and called:

                "Who's there? Show yourself!"

                An Omega emerged from the trees. A small Omega clutching a chubby bundle to his chest, a slumbering pup. He was dressed for travel in a heavy coat and cloak with the hood pulled overhead. His big, round eyes looked dark in a face as white as milk.

                Mikkel relaxed his axe-arm, but looked confused. "Who are you?"

                "Please," said the Omega bravely, "don't attack."

                "I'm not going to attack—" Mikkel started, then stiffened. His reassurance morphed into a livid growl as an Alpha stepped out of the forest to stand beside the Omega, his mate. " _You_!" he spat, brandishing the axe; showing his teeth. "What the fuck do _you_ want?"

                Berwald Oxenstierna was a tall, blonde Alpha with tense blue eyes that bore into Mikkel. He was a revered voyager in his homeland, with a good reputation for being fair and merciful; a warrior and a leader of Alphas, second-in-command of his pack—his crew; and the first-cousin of the Alpha who had attacked Bjørn.

                " _Answer me_!" Mikkel yelled, scaring his pups and waking the one cradled in Berwald's mate's arms. " _What the fuck do you want_?"

                "Please," said the Omega, bouncing his crying pup. He looked back at Berwald, then faced Mikkel. He met Bjørn's eyes, and said:

                "We want to come with you."


	28. Wanderlust - Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya  
> Part Three is set two months after the end of Part Two. It is an T-rated story.

**THE CALL OF THE WILD**

**PART THREE**

**WANDERLUST**

* * *

  **THE ISLES**

A boat sat beached on the rocks, the likes of which Al Kirkland had never seen. It was too short and stout to be a warship, but too big to be a river vessel. It had a thick mast and a sail of tough cloth, a shallow haul, and gently curving sides that peaked at the bow and stern, taking the shape of two great wolves' heads. It was a beautiful exhibition of Northern craftsmanship, weathered or not. Cautiously, the young Omega scout rubbed his fingers across the sanded wood, noting how much the earthy paints had been washed by saltwater. Inside the boat stretched half-a-dozen benches and oars, but there was no cargo, no supplies, and no sign of life except for a blackened fire-pit and a mural of greying charcoal pictures. They looked like the amateur scribbles of a pup, depicting what Al guessed were ships and stars and a host of unnatural creatures. One large pictograph showed several figures: four adults and four pups. _Not a crew of raiders then_ , Al thought. (Not even Northerners would take pups on a raid, right?) _Settlers then_. He stood back and surveyed the landing site, but he saw no evidence of which way the crew had gone. They had been very careful. The boat, itself, was well-hidden in a shallow inlet flanked by high cliffs, and Al wouldn't have found it if his ears hadn't guided him to the place; he had heard water sloshing against the wood. His sensitive Omega ears were one of the reasons he made such a good scout, because the wind carried sounds just as well as it carried scents.

                "Al," called Patrick, climbing the ridge. "What have your ears found, little nephew?"

                Al frowned at his uncle. "That's _second-in-command_ ," he corrected indignantly.

                Patrick reached him and ruffled his flyaway hair. "Second-in-command _in-training_ ," he teased. He was only ten years older than Al, a cheeky twenty-five to his two nephews' fifteen, and had always been more of a friend than a parental figure to the young Omegas.

                "It's a Northern vessel," he needlessly reported, eyeing the boat, "built for trade. See the hutches in the deck? They're for storing cargo. Have you searched it?"

                "I was just about to," said Al, embarrassed that he hadn't noticed the row of trapdoors. He climbed aboard as Patrick inspected the sides.

                "It's been sitting here for a while. A couple of weeks, at least," he said. "The keel is covered in barnacles and salt, and it's dug a trench in the beach, shifted by the tides. It wouldn't be sitting like this if it were heavy with cargo. I don't expect our new friends left much behind when they came ashore."

                Al admired the practiced way Patrick scoured the boat, pointing to telltale details he wouldn't have otherwise noticed.

                "I think it's a family boat," he said, hoping to impress Patrick as the Alpha leapt aboard. "See this picture?"

                "A rich family then. This ain't a fishing boat, Al. He's either someone really important or he's a bloody thief," Patrick said, tapping his knuckles against one of the bigger charcoal figures.

                "Why do you think he's the leader?" Al asked, squinting at the broad lines.

                "Because this boat was crafted in the North-West, not the North-East, and this fellow's got the wolf head on his cloak, see? It matches the wolf heads on the bow and stern. The other Alpha"—he pointed to the other big figure—"has a handsome pair of antlers over his head, that's a symbol of the North-East."

                "Those are antlers? I thought he just had a really bad hair style," Al shrugged.

                Patrick chuckled. "You think you were a better artist as a wee pup? Cause I'll tell you right now, you weren't. It's a testament of pure love that your parents kept all the scribbles you and Mattie gave them."

                Al frowned.

                "Look, Al, happy family pack or not, it's important that we find these strangers," Patrick said, exiting the boat. "The clan-laws are clear about foreigners who aren't pair-bonded to clan-members. They're dangerous. There are no _settlers_ on the Isles," he said resolutely, making _the_ Isles sound more like _our_ Isles. "There are only squatters and invaders. And if these Northerners think they can sail in and steal our land, they're wrong."

                That said, he started back up the steep incline.

                Al stayed aboard for a moment, urging his eyes and ears and nose to reveal the boat's secrets. If he was going to succeed his Alpha-father and become the pack's second-in-command one day, he needed to prove himself worthy of the title. He couldn't read or do sums well enough to be of administrative use, but he _could_ hone his scouting skills; he _could_ learn to read signs and acts instead of letters, and train himself in the art of reconnaissance and information gathering. This was _his_ homeland, after all, not Gil's, which is partially why the Alpha pack-leader-to-be had chosen Al as his second. Because if Gil ever wanted to be accepted as more than a usurper of the Islander pack, he would need Al's knowledge and connection to the pack and the land itself. No foreign invader would ever outwit the Kirklands on their own turf.

                And yet, the Northerner's boat didn't feel like a craft of invasion. It felt like a nest.

                He saw the proud, snarling wolf heads that growled power, but he also saw the pup's pictures, already faded by a fortnight of sun and salt and rain. He wondered how old the artist was, how long he had lived on the boat for, and why two Alphas from rival clans had shared a journey across the sea?

                "Why did you come here?" he whispered into the wind.

                Then he leapt down onto the rocky beach and followed Patrick up the slope.


	29. Wanderlust – Chapter One

**THE ISLES**

Matt was brewing tea when Liam dropped a messy stack of parchment on the tabletop, making him flinch. He dropped it in front of Gil, who was consulting a large map of the north-eastern Isles and the Kirkland pack's boundaries within it. Gil looked from the stack to Liam to Scott and back.

                "Twenty-six reports of Northern raids this month," said Liam. "Their ships have been spotted on the coast at the Firth all the way into the Highlands. They're growing bolder."

                " _Scheisse_ ," said Gil, rubbing his jaw. He glanced at Scott, but the pack-leader folded his arms and leant back in his chair like an examiner, waiting to see what his successor would do.

                Matt poured two cups of tea for Scott and Liam, and then put his hands on Gil's shoulders from behind. His Alpha-mate was reading the reports, muttering aloud and mispronouncing names. (Gil's English was good; his Gaelic was not.) "They keep targeting settlements with water access and farmlands," he said, finding a name on the map and dragging his finger across the line of a river. "It's not material wealth they're after, it's land."

                "Obviously," said Liam, taking a drink. "There's no wealth on the Isles. If they wanted luxury goods they'd go south."

                "They do," Gil said absently, rifling through the reports. "But these aren't traders out on a viking; these ships are full of settlers seeking better lands to colonize. It's a hard life in the North, I don't blame them for migrating south. The climate is harsh, the pup mortality rate is high, and none of the clans are unified. The way they operate is archaic. Leadership is founded on strength—trial-by-combat—and pack-members swear blood oaths under the full moon. It's all superstition," he said disdainfully. "They still live by the old rites—oral folklores and pagan rituals. For a culture so well-traveled, they hold fast to their traditions."

                "You seem to know a lot about the North," Scott noted, mildly suspicious.

                Gil shrugged. "A lot of Omega refugees end up in the Western Empire. Omegas with nowhere else to go when their clan is conquered and all of the Alphas killed in battle."

                "So, why not just do that here then?" Liam asked. "Choose to be Islanders, I mean. If they're fine with mating Westerners, why not Islanders?"

                "Because these aren't refugees," Gil said, stabbing a report with his index-finger. "They're not looking for a clan to adopt them, they're looking to grow established bloodlines of their own. They're looking for land to claim and rule, not share. These aren't _just_ settlers," he emphasized, "they're warriors first."

                The Alphas fell into pensive silence.

                Matt had experienced enough not to judge a people by ignorant rumour, but the Islanders' prejudice against the North was deeper sowed than any other. (Though, Islanders so rarely came into contact with Easterners that their existence had fallen into the category of myth, and whenever someone discovered Ivan's heritage there was always a moment of stunned staring before verbal communication resumed.) Matt knew the Islanders hatred of the North was steeped in fear; fear of the unknown, and fear of a breed bigger and stronger than they. The Northerners were fewer, but, according to the accounts of raid survivors, they were brutal, belonging more to the realm of wild beasts than of civilized folk. Omegas whispered that Northern Alphas were lusty things who carried steel weapons and wore furs and had hundreds of pups each. They were rough, rude, and warlike, and they practiced a religion older than the Isles, themselves. Matt had read a book once; or rather, he had glanced in a book once, before Arthur grabbed it out of his nine-year-old hands. It was a heavy leather-bound tomb that sat in the bottom corner of Arthur's library, though Matt had never seen his Omega-father—or anyone—remove it to use. It was written in a foreign language no one read, but the illustrations depicted pagan rituals and blood sacrifice and had given the Omega-pup nightmares.

                _Don't profile_ , he thought. _The Northerners are just Alphas and Omegas like everyone else_ ; _there's nothing mystical about them._ The Northern Clans may have been a wild, isolated country, but so were the Isles. _We have a lot more in common with the North than we do with the Mainland_ , he considered. _Perhaps that will be our advantage._

                Still, Matt did not relish any direct confrontation with the Northerners—militantly or otherwise. He was now thirty-six weeks pregnant, and, though it had been a relatively enjoyable experience (sans nausea, which had dogged him throughout his first trimester), his body was starting to feel the strain. His hips and lower-back constantly ached as his pelvic bones and joints softened and stretched in preparation for delivery, and he had been having contractions irregularly for the past week—all of it normal, Arthur assured him.

                "It's just false labour," he had promised Matt the first time the Omega had experienced the sharp pains. (Gil had gone so white, he looked likely to faint.) "It's a good sign. It means your body is preparing itself for labour. Just lie back and have a cuppa tea, love. It'll pass," Arthur had said in annoying good-cheer.

                The whole family was excited for the new arrival, though no one demonstrated his joy quite as ostentatiously as Francis, who bragged to everyone that he would soon have a grandpup to spoil. Gil, too, was very eager, but had the added worries of parenthood and of being the pack-leader weighing him down. He did, however, take an intimate interest in Matt's progress, and would abandon all else to assist his Omega-mate when needed—which was rare, since Matt's care was managed by Arthur. And Ivan, too, was always nearby. He refused to have anything to do with politics and warfare and instead spent most of his time as a happy carpenter, renovating the house and making gifts for the unborn pup, despite the superstitious Kirkland brothers warning him not to. It was bad-luck to name or prepare for a pup before it was born. It tempted fate. "It's like asking for something horrible to happen!" the Islanders said. Though Gil and Ivan both disregarded the warnings, thinking it stupid not to prepare. Gil already thought the Islanders much too superstitious for their own good, and at least once a month he and Arthur had it out over Arthur leaving food for creatures Gil refused to acknowledge. "Stop wasting food!" he would yell, to which Arthur would stubbornly retort: "It's my house, I'll feed them if I want to! Gods, Gilbert, do you _want_ the fey to forsake us?"

                "Your Omega-father's nuts!" Gil would complain to Matt every month without fail.

                He had once tried to garner support from the Alphas, but it had backfired. "It's stupid to waste food on those fucking figments of his imagination—" he had begun, only to have Owen slap a petrified hand over his mouth, and for Scott to stab a warning finger at him, saying in a deadly serious voice: " _Do not insult the fey_."

                Francis, who had been present at the time, found this hilarious, and later advised Gil never to argue with the Kirklands about the fey. "You can't fight crazy," he had said, smiling fondly as Arthur habitually put out a dish of milk.

                (It made Gil wonder if Francis had caught what the Mainlanders called _Island Madness_. Matt had smacked him for that.)

                The most recent uproar had occurred when Ivan gifted Matt a beautiful cradle. Scott had started his lecture, accusing the Easterner of deliberately provoking fate, but was interrupted by Matt's utter delight. The cradle was large enough for two pups (considering the family's desire and genetic disposition for twins) and carved in the shape of an eagle—Gil's sigil—so that the infant(s) would be embraced on both sides by the bird's sweeping wings. Even Gil had been impressed when he saw it, and went as far as to awkwardly shake Ivan's hand in gratitude. Matt, being a wee bit emotionally unbalanced, had cried and hugged Ivan, making Al laugh and Ivan blush.

                Fortunately, Gil had accepted Ivan's presence as a benefit by then, and he had even asked his brother-by-mating-law to keep an eye on the property when he couldn't be there. He worked long hours trying to win the pack's favour and defend it from invaders, managing the pack not unlike he had managed the Black Forest Fort, albeit with less disciplined underlings, who were just as likely to say "fuck you!" as "yes sir!" He complained about all the work— _whined about it_ , Matt sighed—but nor did he change his strict routine, and Matt began to suspect that his Alpha-mate secretly liked to be busy. Gil whined even more on stormy days when he was stuck indoors with nothing to do, and it  exasperated Matt that Gil couldn't sit still. A part of him was always moving, even if it was just his fingers drumming the furniture, which irritated the pregnant Omega to no end. ("Gil, darling, if you don't stop it, I might _accidentally_ cleave off one of your fingers.") (He was getting quite good at passive-aggressive.) But Matt respected the position his Alpha-mate was in with regards to the pack and did his best to support him. It was why he abided by Gil's wishes and didn't venture out. The Alpha was stressed enough without worrying unnecessarily for his Omega-mate's safety.

                At first Matt had felt indignant about Gil's request:

                "Don't you think it's a bit much?" he had asked when Gil told him not to leave the Kirkland homestead. Matt couldn't think of anyone in the pack who would want to hurt him, but Gil's reply was adamant:

                "No," he said, resting his head on the Omega's belly. "I'm not taking any chances. The pack loves you, Matt, but most of them still hate me. Half of them resent me for being Scott's heir, and the other half resent me for mating you. I won't risk the safety of you or our pup."

                Matt had conceded—he was heavily pregnant and rarely left home, anyway—and agreed not to meet anyone, especially Alphas, until their pup had been born and both Omega-father and pup were out of danger.

                He also agreed, more humorously, not to take any of the potions Arthur pushed on him. "I don't know what's in that brew, so I don't want it in you," Gil had said, adamant about Matt's health.

                Arthur had huffed. "It's all natural ingredients."

                "Opioids make you slow and stupid," Gil scrunched his nose. "We used them for surgeries at the fort. I don't want Matt taking any."

                "It's for pain-relief, "Arthur insisted.

                "Matt's not in pain. Are you, _schatz_?" he added, looking sheepishly at Matt.

                Matt shook his head. "No, I'm fine."

                "Well _of course_ he's going to say that." Arthur rolled his eyes. "He wouldn't dare risk upsetting _you_ , Gilbert. Here," he had said after Gil left, handing Matt a vial. "He'll never know you took it, trust me."

                Matt had smiled at his well-intending Omega-father, but declined the potion. "I'm fine, Dad, really. Gil says that Western physicians forbid pregnant Omegas from using opioids. I know the Western Empire has a reputation for being needlessly cruel, but it's not true," he assured. "Omegas are treated no differently there than they are here. It's a lie to say that Western Alphas are harsh, especially physicians. Their research is for the _benefit_ of pregnant Omegas—that's what Gil says—and they've documented more birth defects in pups whose Omega-parent took opioids than those who didn't. It might just be coincidence," he acknowledged, ignorant on the subject, "but Gil believes in their work, which, even you have to admit, is more advanced than ours. I don't want to risk the health of my pup."

                "Oh, for gods' sake! I took pain-relief when I was pregnant with you and Alfred and you're both fine!" Arthur said, but eventually ceded to his pup's wishes. Instead, he used heat and massage therapy to ease Matt's pain, which Gil had given his nod of approval.

                Throughout the course of his pregnancy, Matt had only been genuinely annoyed with Gil once, and that was because the Alpha had hesitated to mate him for fear of hurting the unborn pup, but Matt had quickly convinced him otherwise. The influx of pregnancy hormones was making him... rather rambunctious, and the Alpha had a hard time refusing his confident, begging Omega-mate. Now, it was a rare night that the couple didn't mate, or at least cuddle, and many jokes were made at the breakfast table about their amorous nocturnal activities, much to Francis' dismay.

                ("And that's why Ivan and I sleep in the guesthouse," Al had said, referring to the outbuilding that Ivan had recently finished. It was still under-furnished, but it gave the eager couple the freedom to mate—to do whatever they wanted—in privacy, so Al didn't mind sleeping on the floor.)

                Absently, Gil drew Matt to him as he considered the reports spread out in front of him. Matt thought he had grown too big and heavy to perch on his Alpha-mate's knee, but Gil dismissed his concern. He liked having Matt near, especially when he was teetering on the edge of important decisions.

                Matt gently combed his fingers through Gil's hair, rubbing his head, as Gil's fingers tapped ceaselessly on the table. Then, when it finally became apparent that neither Scott nor Liam was going to admit to ignorance about their precarious Northerners situation, Matt did, yielding to his Alpha-mate's—the ex-commander's—expertise. He glanced at the reports, and said:

                "What does all of this mean for us, Gil?"

                Gil sighed. "It means we need a force we don't have to defend against an invasion of seasoned warriors bred to fight. It means we're fucked if we don't do something soon, because Northerners are stubborn bastards. Once they start building and breeding here, it'll be like pulling weeds trying to get rid of them."

                Before Scott or Liam could reply, Matt heard footsteps approaching the house. "Al and Patrick are back," he announced.

                Al spilled loudly into the house, his flyaway blonde hair a mess of windswept locks, his clothes untucked, and his boots caked with grains of sand, which he trailed into the kitchen. Matt grimaced. Al was bright-eyed and flushed with vigor, excited to make his report. Matt envied him his inexhaustible energy. He, himself, would have welcomed an afternoon nap just then. After Al came Patrick and then Ivan, who had been working outside. Al, though he was the youngest, took pride of place in the lead and was the first to speak when Gil asked:

                "What news?"

                "We found them," Al said, a little breathless. "A crew of Northerners. Uh, a family of Northerners—?" he corrected. "It wasn't easy, but we finally tracked them to a site about ten miles north."

                "Good," Gil praised, rubbing Matt's back as if he had had anything to do with it. Then he made an educated guess, reading Al's expression, and added: "What's the problem then? Do you need the pack's help to capture them?"

                "Uh, no," Al hesitated. "There's only two of them—two Alphas, I mean. I think our family alone can handle it. But, uh... that's not the problem. They, uh, didn't put up a fight when we met."

                Gil's hand stopped abruptly. Liam froze, his teacup half-raised. Scott slammed his hands down on the table, disturbing a trey of biscuits.

                "When you _what_?" he barked. "Alfred"— _Oh dear_ , Matt thought, _full-name from Uncle Scott is never good_ —"what did you do? You were only supposed to track the Northerners, not fucking engage them! Do you have any idea how dangerous those bastards are? You're training to become the second-in-command, you can't take risks like that! You're lucky your parents aren't here to fucking skin you, pup!"

                Al ducked his head, but his blue eyes stayed alert. Ivan lifted a hand to touch Al, anxious, now, to inspect his Omega-mate for signs of damage, but thought better of it.

                He knew that if Al inherited Francis' position as second-in-command, the Omega would outrank him—and everyone else in the Kirkland family except Gil. (Matt would become the third highest-ranking pack-member when Gil ascended to pack-leader, which was still a nerve-wracking prospect despite his newfound courage. _Two Omegas_ , he thought, _second in the pack hierarchy only to the pack-leader_. It was kind of exciting.) But a position like Al's needed strength, especially since he would be the first Omega second-in-command in Islander history. Ivan knew this. He knew that the pack-members would never take Al seriously if his Alpha-mate coddled him in public, which is why his support—for now, at least—must be relegated to the shadows. Matt knew how difficult it must be for his brother-by-mating-law to be distanced from his mate. He knew how anxious Ivan felt every time Al left the Kirkland homestead, because he felt the same way about Gil. Just because Gil was a born-and-bred soldier, baptized by military fire, a strong and clever and capable Alpha leader, didn't mean for a moment that Matt didn't worry about him. In fact, Gil's overconfidence often made him worry more, and sometimes he wished that he could order Gil to stay locked safely inside. Instead, he took advantage of his position as Gil's Omega-mate and stayed by his side whenever he could. He knew how unfair it was that he could coddle Gil in public and the pack-members would only see a loving and devoted Omega-mate, when Ivan couldn't coddle Al for fear of emasculating himself and poisoning his Omega-mate's career. But he also knew that his twin-brother represented something important. Whether Al knew it or not, he represented a change in society that most pack-members—most clans; the whole world, perhaps—wasn't ready to accept, and Matt admired Al because of it. He pitied the trials that he and Ivan would inevitably face, but he also knew that they were both strong enough to overcome it. Al was still much loved by the pack, which was a relief, though much of the older generation would never forgive him for mating an Easterner.

                _Why does change have to come so slowly_? Matt wondered, gently petting his Westerner's head.

                He, of course, had the benefit of being pregnant to placate the pricklier pack-members, otherwise he doubted they would be quiet about his choice of foreign Alpha-mate either. At least Matt was doing what an Omega-mate was supposed to, fulfilling his traditional role of breeding pups. It was, Matt thought again, unbearably unfair. He _wanted_ a family (a big family, if he was being honest); he _wanted_ to be an Omega-father and raise Gil's pups, but that was his dream, not Al's. And the way many pack-members now looked at them when they were together—at Al like he was defective, and at Matt like he was nothing more than the swell of his abdomen—made him feel equal parts angry and ashamed. Angry on Al's behalf, and ashamed of himself for doing exactly what was expected of him, even though it's what he wanted.

                " _Don't_ ," Arthur had said, cutting Matt off when he confessed. "Don't _ever_ let them make you feel like you've done the wrong thing. The packs are deathly afraid of change; afraid of things they don't understand. They see you and Alfred as a threat to their stagnant lifestyles, so afraid that change will make everything worse that they can't even imagine how it could make everything better. But you can't let them bully you into playing by their rules, Matthew. If you give them an inch, they'll take a fucking mile. Trust me, I know.

                "Do you think the pack was happy when Scott became the pack-leader? Do you think they celebrated the fact that he adopted his bastard nephews—pups of his slutty Omega-brother, who spread his legs for a stranger? Do you think they accepted that stranger as their second-in-command without protest?" Arthur shook his head. "If they fight you, you fight back," he advised. "You fight with your teeth," like Scott, "and you fight with your tongue," like Francis. "Kirkland's don't lie down for anyone," he said proudly, squeezing Matt's shoulder. "So, don't ever let them make you feel unworthy. Don't ever be ashamed of following your heart, no matter what it wants. I have no doubt that you and your brother will both do great things. You just have to be brave enough to try."

                Matt took comfort in his Omega-father's words, which echoed in his head as he looked at Al. Al was strong and brave and wouldn't be bullied by anyone. He refused to be intimidated, which would make him a good second-in-command someday. _Gil will be lucky to have Al by his side_ , Matt thought, proud of them both. Even though Al looked a little nervous as Scott paced the kitchen in short-tempered frustration, the Omega's resolve didn't waver.

                "What happened?" Gil asked Al, his voice even. "What do you mean, the Northerners didn't put up a fight?"

                "It's fucking lucky they didn't," Liam put in, staring incredulously at his twin and nephew. "With just two of you, you'd have been slaughtered. Did you run?"

                "Well, no..." said Al, glancing at Patrick, "not quite. They're really not what we were expecting. I mean, both Alphas are big, mean-looking guys—and one of the Omegas is taller than me! They're fucking huge! Like, Ivan-sized!"

                "Al," Gil waved a hand impatiently, "report."

                "Right." Al straightened, adopting a formal posture. "See, I found them by accident—"

                Patrick smacked his nephew. "You're not supposed to admit that," he whispered. "You're supposed to say you found them because you're a cracking scout."

                Gil huffed and rolled his eyes. He was getting irritated; Matt could feel it. He could practically hear the ex-commander thinking: _This one needs more training_.

                "Right, right," Al continued, waving-off Patrick. "The point is we met them. Two Alphas and two Omegas and four young pups, one a newborn less than a year old. Two families," he clarified, "not a pack of warriors. It was a tense meeting," he admitted. "The Alphas are understandably protective of their families—"

                " _Are_?" Gil questioned.

                "—but Patty and I weren't much of a threat, so they didn't attack us. I talked to them," he said, breaking eye-contact, knowing that he had disobeyed protocol. "I told them that they're trespassing on our pack's land, and that it's illegal to hunt on land that doesn't belong to you. That really baffled them for a minute. I guess the law is different in the North—? Like, their whole territory must be a free-for-all or something. Maybe that's why they're so competitive and, like, completely fine with stealing. Anyway, I told them that the Isles are different, and they need the permission of the pack-leader if they wanted to stay—"

                "You _what_?"

                "—so they finally agreed to come with us, and now they're kind of—"

                "—in my front-garden," Francis finished, standing crossly in the door-frame with Arthur at his side. He glared at his impulsive Omega-pup. "Alfred, _chéri_ , why is there a family of Northerners in my front-garden?"

* * *

The two Northern Alphas stood rigid, both heavily armed, because Al had been unable to persuade them to relinquish their weapons.

                "Of course I asked them to disarm," he argued defensively, "but they refused! I told them I wouldn't lead them to the pack-leader if they were armed, but they just stared at me like they didn't understand what I'd just said. I don't know how good their English is," he shrugged. "They don't speak much."

                "Oh, their English is just fine," Gil guessed with confidence. Most Northern voyagers were multilingual, and the Isles was a favourite destination. "They were probably just ignoring you, Al."

                "Oh, well, they promised not to attack... as long as we don't," Al added, trying to look casual, like he hadn't made a mistake inviting home a couple of Vikings.

                Gil took a deep breath and resisted the urge to whack Al. Sometimes he admired how fearless his brother-by-mating-law was; how trusting he was, assuming that his family could handle anything that happened. It was nice that he felt so safe and confident in his home, but _not_ nice— _not okay_ , Gil thought—when Al invited potentially dangerous strangers into the house where Gil's pregnant Omega-mate lived. Gil knew that his concern for Matt was bordering on paranoia, but just then, looking out at the Northerners, he felt it was warranted.

                "Stay inside," he said to Matt, unbuckling his dagger and pressing it into the Omega's hand. Then he kissed Matt's forehead and led the Alphas—and Al—outside.

                "Who's the pack-leader here?" demanded one of the Northerners as soon as he spotted Gil. His royal-blue eyes surveyed the Islanders: seven Alphas and one determined Omega. "That one—" he singled Al out; Ivan moved to stand beside him, "—said I could speak to the pack-leader. Who is it?" he repeated in accented, but perfect English. He glanced from face-to-face before his eyes settled on Scott, the eldest, but it was Gil who stepped forward.

                "I am," he said.

                The Northerner paused, then cocked a doubtful blonde eyebrow as he regarded Gil—a Westerner, and fourth youngest in the family—with mild bemusement. "Al-right," he drawled, "I'll pretend to believe that. _Pup_ ," he added, indirectly announcing that he was older.

                Gil narrowed his eyes and clenched his fists, trying to keep his temper, but the derogative _pup_ reverberated in his memory in Le Roux's mocking voice.

                "My name is Gilbert Beilschmidt— _Kirkland_ ," he quickly corrected, cursing his mistake. But the Northerner didn't seem to care about the family's name.

                "Hello, Gilbert. Gil. Can I call you Gil? My name's Mikkel," he said, grinning arrogantly; showing his canines. If he was intimidated by the pack of unhappy Islanders, he was doing a good job of hiding it; though, his posture was tense. "Here's what I want," he continued, wasting no time. He counted on his half-gloved fingers. "I want a good plot of land to live on. I want permission to hunt your forests and fish your waters. I want safe passage for my ship to come and go without scrutiny. And I want you to promise that your pack will _never_ attack my family."

                "Oh, is that all?" said Gil with stiff sarcasm. He glanced at Scott, who shook his head. "Those are some pretty steep requests, Northerner."

                "They're not requests," Mikkel returned. "Leave us in peace and we'll do the same to you. There need not be any animosity between us."

                "Right," said Gil, crossing his arms. "I'm just supposed to believe you? What happens when the rest of your family arrives and one plot of land is too small?"

                "There are no more ships coming. None associated with me, at least. I swear it. It's just my brother and I."

                He indicated the tall, blonde, blue-eyed Alpha standing stonily beside him; the Alpha who looked nothing like Mikkel, except for his colouring; the Alpha who smelled like the North-East, not the North-West; the Alpha who was so obviously not blood-related to the arrogant leader that Gil snorted.

                " _Brother_?"

                "Yes," came the Northerner's deep growl. He glared at the Islanders, finally revealing a threat. "My brother, Berwald."

                A moment of fueled silence descended as the Islanders and Northerners faced each other, ready for a fight; Gil challenging Mikkel's word, and Mikkel daring Gil to call him a liar.

                "Al-right," Gil said eventually, uncrossing his arms. "I'll pretend I believe that."

                The Islanders chuckled, much to Mikkel's displeasure. He clenched his fists and growled low in his throat.

                "But do you really expect me to believe that you came here alone, Northerner? That all you want is a peaceful place for your family? That more of your _family_ won't come to claim what doesn't belong to them?"

                Mikkel ignored Gil's questions. Instead, he said: "I see now why you're the one I'm talking to, Gilly."

                " _Don't call me that_!" Gil snapped impulsively in German.

                Mikkel grinned in triumph and continued the conversation in German, deliberately ignoring the Islanders. " _What do you know of the Northern Clans_ , _Westerner_?"

                " _Enough to know I can't trust you_ ," Gil spat, angry now. " _I was born on the far-eastern border_ , _then moved into the west. Now I'm here on the Isles_ , he said, implying his knowledge about the way Northern voyagers—raiders—moved; their favourite routes and targets. " _I've fought many enemies_ , _but none as unpredictable as you. You people don't play by the rules_." Mikkel's lips curled, taking pride in Gil's insult. " _Your warriors do and take what they want and leave the victims—the survivors—behind to suffer. North-West or North-East_ "—he glanced briefly at Berwald—" _it doesn't matter because you're all the same. You're all liars_! _You're all fucking selfish_! _There is no honour in what you do_ , _and I wouldn't let you into my house if you were on your knees begging_!"

                Gil felt a hand on his shoulder and only then realized he was shouting, growling harshly in his native-tongue. He turned and saw Francis, whose eyes gently reprimanded him and reminded him of his diplomatic position as the pack-leader. His Alpha-father-by-mating law squeezed his shoulder in support, then let go, making Gil feel ashamed of his outburst; ashamed he had let the Northerner bait him. His temper abated, he resumed in English:

                "I don't like you. I don't trust you. And I want you to leave."

                Mikkel's stare was hard. It seemed difficult for him to admit: "We have nowhere else to go."

                Gil shook his head. "That's not my problem."

                "Do you _want_ me to beg?" said the Northerner tensely. "Because I will. For them"—he pointed to his family—"I will.

                "I've done many things I'm not proud of, but they have done nothing wrong. They're innocent. They're only here because of me, because I couldn't protect them when they needed me. That's my shame to live with," Mikkel acknowledged nobly, "and I'm trying to make it right. I'm trying to fix what I broke. Please," he said—begged, "don't punish them for my mistake. They don't deserve it."

                Gil looked over Mikkel's shoulder at the Omegas and pups, really seeing them for the first time. They were dressed not unlike the Alphas in heavy layers of weathered wool, knee-high boots, and salt-stained cloaks despite the muggy heat of mid-June. It made the Omegas look shapeless and the pups quite round, but none of the unfashionable garments could hide their beauty, nor their stark unfriendliness. The taller of the two Omegas was holding one pup in his arms while two others clung to his sides. It should have made him look domestic, but it didn't. He looked like the wilderness, like a she-wolf protecting her cubs. He looked as ready to attack as his Alpha-mate, Mikkel, and Gil didn't ignore the sharp fish-knife gleaming at the Omega's waist. The other Omega—Berwald's mate—was smaller, his face softer, but no less resolved to defend his newborn at all cost. Gil could see fear in his eyes, more expressive than his companion's, but he admired the Omega because of it. _He's a brave one_ , he thought, unsure whom he would rather face in combat: the big, strong Alpha warriors, or their fierce-looking Omega-mates.

                "Have you got a family, Gil?" Mikkel asked, letting Gil stare at his family to prove his point. "Have you got an Omega-mate and pups? Yes, you do," he guessed, meeting Gil's red gaze. "I can see it. Then let me ask you something: What _wouldn't_ you do for them?"

                Gil didn't reply. He thought of Matt and their unborn pup, the big family they both wanted. _Nothing_ , was the answer, of course. There was nothing he wouldn't do for them, and Mikkel knew it.

                "I'm not asking you for much," he reiterated, further pressing his advantage. "I have no interest in becoming a member of your pack, and no intention of causing trouble. Just give us an empty plot of land by the water and you'll never even know we're here. Let us live in peace and I will _never_ ask you for anything ever again. I promise." He made a crossed sign with his fingers, then kissed the back of his hand—the symbol of a sworn vow. "Please," he repeated, taking a deliberate step forward. The Islanders growled. "I'm asking for your help. You have nothing to lose by letting us stay. You outnumber Berwald and I three-to-one. Do you really think I'd risk my family's safety by betraying you?

                "Let me remind you," he added, growing impatient, "that your scouts didn't capture us. We came here willing to meet with you, to ask for your permission to stay. We haven't done anything to you and we haven't taken anything we didn't need. Call us refugees if you want, because that's what we are. We've had a very long, hard, cold journey," he said, taking another step, "and my family is tired. My Omega-mate and pups have had to endure more than anyone ever should, and you haven't even invited them in for tea." He eyed the Islanders reproachfully. "Now that's a bit rude, don't you think?"

                Gil glowered at the Northerner, even as guilt seized him. He accidentally glanced back at the pups—their pale faces and hungry eyes, seeing the bundled newborn in his Omega-father's arms—and cursed. Matt would be ashamed of him if he turned them away, now. Gil would be ashamed of himself.

                _Well-played_ , _Northerner_.

                He glanced left-to-right, silently consulting Scott and Francis, who both nodded their consent. Then he faced the Northerners and relented.

                "The Omegas and pups can come inside," he allowed, "but you and your brother must stay out here."

                "Fine," Mikkel agreed eagerly. Berwald nodded.

                "You'll both stay here," Gil repeated, interrupting their relief, "and answer three questions. I want the truth, Mikkel. I want to know who you really are, where you've really come from, and why you're really here.

                "I'd better like your fucking answers," he warned.


	30. Wanderlust – Chapter Two

**NORTHERN CLANS**

**EIGHT WEEKS AGO**

Who are you? Why are you here?" Mikkel demanded, thrusting his axe-head toward Berwald. A growl rumbled in his throat.

                But it wasn't the Alpha who replied.

                " _Please_ ," said his fearful Omega-mate. "My name is Tino Väinämöinen. This is my Alpha-mate, Berwald, and my pup— _our_ pup," he corrected, casting a tender glance at Berwald, "Peter. We know what you did. We saw you drag out Jens' body, but we're not going to tell anyone. We have no love for Jens Oxenstierna, believe me. We don't want to hurt you. We want to go with you," he repeated. "It's Peter, we need to get him away from the clan. He's in danger," he said, hugging the bundled newborn protectively.

                "Danger?" Mikkel's eyes narrowed. "What kind of danger?"

                Tino shook his head. "Not now—there's no time to explain. As soon as Jens' body is discovered, they'll come after you. You must be far away by then."

                "And why should I believe you? You could be luring us into a trap," Mikkel accused.

                A strangled sound escaped Tino; half-whine, half-sob. It tore at Mikkel's heart—he hated to see an Omega in distress—but he had his own family to protect, and he had always been weary of strangers. If Tino's story was false—

                "My Omega-mate is not a liar," said Berwald suddenly, his voice deep and angry, insulted on Tino's behalf. His sea-blue eyes snared Mikkel ruthlessly, shaming the North-Westerner. They said: _What kind of Alpha are you_ , _to act so uncharitably to a pleading Omega-father with a newborn_?

                Mikkel felt the reprimand in the pit of his stomach. He glanced uncertainly at Bjørn for advice, but his mate's face was cryptic, focused yet faraway, like the way he looked when he was recording his tales. Andrias, Emil and Kujâk stood behind him, watching their Alpha-father with big, curious eyes, wondering what he would do. Mikkel felt the pressure of those innocent eyes more than anything.

                _I must protect them_ , he knew, for he had put them in unpredictable danger, _but I must teach them_ , _too_ , _and what kind of example am I setting if I turn away those in need of my help_?

                "If we stay here," Berwald said bluntly, staring—glaring—at Mikkel, "my Alpha-pup will be killed."

                " _Please_ ," Tino begged, tears in his big, round eyes, "take us with you."

* * *

The first thing Mikkel did was shove an oar into Berwald's thick hand. "Row," he ordered, sitting heavily down on the opposite bench.

                The second thing he did, once the sail had captured a strong westerly wind, pulling the knaar into the open-sea, was to take a piece of charcoal and draw a definable line across the deck.

                "This is my side, that's your side," he said, pointing at Berwald. "Stay on your side."

                Berwald's brow knit in displeasure. "Your side is bigger," he noted.

                "My family is bigger," Mikkel replied caddishly. "Also, it's my boat, so fuck you. You're lucky I let you board it."

                Berwald glared stonily at Mikkel, but didn't argue. Instead, he swallowed whatever retort he had wanted to make and retreated to the stern, where Tino sat quietly with Peter.

                Mikkel returned to the bow, where Bjørn was standing, looking out at the brightening horizon. The pups lay asleep at his feet, huddled close together for warmth beneath a pile of wool blankets and furs. Mikkel looked tenderly down at them— _my wee pufflings_ he called them—suddenly feeling a guilty weight settle upon his heart. He was sorry for the circumstance that had forced them from their home and everything they knew, but not sorry that he had done it. _I've chosen a life of exile for my family_ , he knew, and all to save his own mortal skin that had committed an amoral crime, but nor did he believe he had made a mistake.

                "For better or worse," Bjørn had told him, "this is our fate, now, Mick. Perhaps it always was."

                Mikkel had never put faith in the gods. He attended the ceremonies, he partook in the rituals, and he wore the costumes and symbols of divine power, but he had never really believed in it like Bjørn did. He had never entrusted his life path to a higher-power and had never truly thanked a god for his good fortune. Now, lost at sea with a fatal stoning behind him and an uncertain future in front, he wished that he _did_ believe, that he _could_ blame his misfortune on fate instead of bearing the weight of it himself.

                He sighed in resignation and threaded a hand through his thick, braided locks.

                "He's not challenging you, Mick," said Bjørn quietly. His perceptive violet eyes slid from Mikkel to Berwald and back. "There's no need to dominate someone who's already surrendered."

                Mikkel slouched against the bow and got a face full of sea-spray. "I don't like him," he said bluntly.

                Bjørn waited a minute, then said: "I do."

                His Alpha-mate grimaced. "What? _Why_?" he demanded, feeling instantly jealous.

                It was petty of him, he knew, but he hated when his Omega-mate sided against him, especially when another Alpha was involved. It didn't happen often, but when it did Mikkel felt unjustly betrayed by Bjørn, who was not only his Omega-mate, the love of his life, but also his oldest and dearest friend. He knew it was foolish to think that after twenty-five years together, Bjørn might tire of him and leave. He had seen it happen before; he had watched couples fall out of love with each other, but that would never be he and Bjørn.

                It wasn't as if they had never disagreed before, never argued or fought. Twenty-five years was a long time to spend with one person, and they were, admittedly, quite different people at their cores, but they balanced each other. They needed each other. They valued all of the same things—they loved nothing more than each other and their small family—and they were always united when needed. (Bjørn had stood by Mikkel when the Alpha had made some questionable decisions in the past, and had consequentially shared his shame without a word of complaint.) They had grown-up together, had learnt how to be adults together, sharing their glories and mistakes alike. Frankly, neither one of them knew how to be with anyone else. They might bicker about the small things. Mikkel knew that would never change, but they would always agree on the big things, the things that mattered. Mikkel might have been the pack-leader and Bjørn only his dedicated Omega-mate, but in truth they were partners and always had been. _Always will be_. Mikkel would never make an important decision without first consulting Bjørn, whose council he trusted more than anyone else's. He knew that he wouldn't be able to lead without Bjørn—not well, anyway. He wouldn't be able to function without Bjørn. If ever he lost Bjørn, if ever something or some _one_ took the Omega away from him...

                Mikkel thought of Jens Oxenstierna and felt fury churn within him.

                _I don't trust him_ , he thought, glaring back at Berwald. _He's a blood-relative of the Alpha who tried to hurt Norge_ , _with our pups in the next room_. What if Mikkel had failed to stop Jens from raping Bjørn? What if one of their pups had seen it and tried to intervene? Would Jens have killed him? Would he have killed Bjørn when the deed was done? Would that pup-of-a-bitch have murdered his entire family to keep them quiet? _Berwald Oxenstierna has that monster's blood in his veins. I can smell it._ He clenched his teeth; felt the bite of his canines. Every time he got a whiff of Berwald's scent he thought of Jens and re-lived the incident that was still too fresh to be mere memory. His fists curled as rage boiled within him. He could still feel the knife's handle, the way it had pierced the Alpha's squishy flesh, and the hot, slippery blood that spilled out, coating his hands. He could still feel the jerking weight of Jens' body as he pulled it off of Bjørn; the thump it made hitting the floor.

                _Berwald is not a friend_ , _no matter how much he submits to my lead_. _He'll never be anything but a rival_.

                So why— _why_ didn't Bjørn hate him as much as Mikkel did? Why had Bjørn allowed him to board the boat? Why hadn't the violated Omega spit and screamed and begged Mikkel to chase the offending Alpha off?

                Mikkel didn't realize he was growling until Bjørn rested his head on his shoulder, quieting him. Even after twenty-five years, he still didn't like to be far from Bjørn. (His volatile temper was shorter without Bjørn nearby.) He preferred to keep his Omega-mate close, regardless of who's company they were in. The weight of the Omega's body beside him relaxed him, as did his scent, which was earthy—pine-needles and purple heather. Bjørn's hair was as soft as lamb's wool against his stubbled jaw, and his beauty made the Alpha smile. His long eyelashes looked silver in the pale light of breaking dawn, and when he sighed softly—a peaceful sound—his lips parted ever so slightly.

                Mikkel wrapped an arm possessively around his Omega-mate, still anxious about the other Alpha on-board; still jealous, because Bjørn had not given him an answer.

                "Norge—?" he insisted. He wanted to know why Bjørn wasn't afraid of Berwald. He _had_ to know; the mystery would drive him mad, otherwise. " _Why_?" he repeated stubbornly.

                Bjørn's lips upturned at the corners, so subtly no one else would have noticed. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling his Alpha-mate's scent, and simply said:

                "I like him because he reminds me of you."

* * *

Peter's howl woke Bjørn at sunrise. It was a high-pitched wailing shriek bigger than a body so small should be able to make, and it didn't stop. He carried on, crying into midday, his voice sounding loud in the echoing silence of the sea. Tino rocked him, bounced him, and paced back-and-forth on his and Berwald's side of the deck, but the tiny pup was inconsolable. " _Hush_ , _hush_ ," the Omega-father pleaded, looking wan in the unforgiving daylight. He handed the pup to Berwald, but the Alpha had even less success soothing him, and Peter continued to scream. Bjørn observed silently as he ladled porridge for his family's midday meal. Since the swaying of the boat put most young pups to sleep—his three included—and since Peter refused the goat's milk Tino tried to feed him, it didn't take much investigating for him to deduce that the newborn was hungry.

                "I'm really sorry," said Tino, catching Bjørn's eye.

                "It's fine," Mikkel replied, interjecting himself. He pointed to his brood. "They screamed bloody-murder for the first six months of their lives."

                Emil paused, a chunk of porridge-soaked rye in hand, and gave his Alpha-father an indignant look. Mikkel smiled and patted his head.

                "How old is he?" Bjørn asked Tino.

                "Six months."

                "You can't wean a pup overnight," Bjørn said, revealing a degree of knowledge begot by experience. "You do know that, right?"

                "Well, I—I do _now_ ," Tino admitted, glancing sheepishly at Berwald. "But I can't feed him. The Omega who's been feeding Peter was a captive brought back from a raid. One of Berwald's warriors got him pregnant and decided to keep he and the pup. He brought them back from the Isles. That's where Peter was born. He's adopted," he added, confirming Bjørn's suspicion.

                Mikkel's nose—sensitive to blood—had already discerned as much. At first, Mikkel had worried that he was helping a couple of kidnappers escape their clan. "He's not their pup, Norge. He doesn't smell like them," he had said, implying Peter. Bjørn had been weary at first, too, but his doubts were soon slain by the couple's shameless affection for each other and the pup they called their own. "Peter is no worse off," he had decided, and shrugged in disinterest.

                It wasn't his place to nose into anyone else's business, after all. Not anymore. Mikkel was no longer the pack-leader and Bjørn no longer the pack-leader's mate, obliged to council his fellow Omegas. And for that he was secretly grateful. He had always had limited patience for incompetence, and had never been fond of solving other people's problems for them. He was—admittedly—rather uncharitable to those who refused to help themselves. So as long as Peter was healthy and unhurt, Bjørn vowed not to get involved with the little North-Eastern family. Even when Tino—the quintessential first-time parent—fussed and fretted over the crying newborn, Bjørn stayed calm; he stayed quiet; he stayed at a distance, forcing himself not to correct Tino unless Peter really needed it, even when Tino's clumsiness prodded at his maternal nature.

                _He's Tino's pup_ , _not mine_ , he thought, fighting the habit of correcting everyone else's mistakes.

                "That's what Omega-mates and fathers do," his own Omega-father had told him once. "We correct, we teach, we nurture, and we support. We are the quiet shadows that make the lights of our mates and pups shine ever brighter. Mikkel is brave and strong and will be a capable Clan Leader someday, but he needs you, Bjørn. By the gods, he needs you by his side. And so do your pups. The future of a clan is born in the high Omega's womb, and it is by his hand that they learn to lead."

                Bjørn had been groomed to lead since his birth, told that he would be pair-bonded to a pack-leader someday, and become the Omega-father of jarls, like his parents and grandparents before him. The Thomassen clan of the far-north was a strong one, and Bjørn's bloodline was renowned for producing warriors of the highest caliber; Alphas who never failed to dominate in trials for leadership. His great-great-grandfather had founded the clan, but by the time his Alpha-father had claimed it, their numbers had dwindled and the overwhelming size of the powerful Densen clan had forced them into a swift surrender. It had been, all things considered, a rather peaceful conquest, and the Thomassen Clan Leader (Bjørn's Alpha-father) had soon filled the post of the Densen Clan Leader's vacant second-in-command. Thus, the Thomassen clan was adopted into the Densen clan without (much) bloodshed and Bjørn was born knowing that he would, in all likelihood, someday be pair-bonded to the Densen Clan Leader's Alpha-pup, Mikkel. Not that Bjørn had ever minded. There were much worse fates than being pair-bonded to your best friend. And even twenty-five years later, Mikkel was still the one he loved most.

                "I trust you, Mick," he said as the knaar had cast off into the chilly North Sea. "I'll follow wherever you lead."

                Now, however, Bjørn felt the bite of regret. It wasn't the bile of a bad decision, nor bitterness for Mikkel, but the queasy insecurity of an uncertain future and regret for everything they had lost. If they had stayed—if they _could_ have stayed—Mikkel would have been the next Densen Clan Leader, and then, gods' willing, Andrias after him. Bjørn and Mikkel's family already represented the unity of two old bloodlines; together, they would have been the beginning of a powerful new dynasty that would have echoed throughout history. But now, that would never be. And it irked him fiercely how quickly a single, horrible event had uprooted his family and changed the course of all of their fates. Now, Bjørn would never be remembered as the Omega-father of jarls, but as the Omega-mate of a murderer. His name, and Mikkel's name, and all three of their pups' names would be scratched from the record, leaving not a legacy of strength and leadership for their old-blooded family, but one of desertion and cowardice.

                _The future of a clan is born in the high Omega's womb_ , his Omega-father had said, casting forth stones and bones to portend the future. As a shaman of the Old Religion, he had never been wrong.

                _Well_ , Bjørn sighed, _there's a first time for everything. You were wrong about me_ , _Papa. My pups will never be jarls._

                _But at least they're alive and safe_.

                He took a deep, cleansing breath. If there was one thing Bjørn had learnt young, it was how to internalize all of his emotions so that his face and body-language always maintained its serene composure. It was—much to Mikkel's dissatisfaction—a trait that Emil had inherited, too.

                "I think your pup's hungry," said Kujâk offhandedly, licking his fingers. He offered his bowl to Tino. "He can share my porridge."

                Tino looked like he might burst into tears, so Bjørn intervened:

                "Peter can't eat porridge, Kujâk. He's too young for it. But you're not," he said tactfully. "Eat it up or you'll be hungry later, and supper isn't until sunset."

                "You won't grow into a big, strong Alpha if you don't eat," Mikkel added in mock-reprimand.

                For a moment, Tino watched the three pups tuck into their meals, Peter still whining unhappily in his arms. He looked sad. _A bit pathetic_ , Bjørn thought—not as if Tino had given up, but like he was cornered and couldn't find a way out.

                "I'm sorry," he repeated quietly. "I just... I don't know what to do. I'm doing everything I can, but nothing is right. Berwald and I wanted a pup for so long, but now I... I can't even take care of him right. I thought the goat's milk would be okay, but he won't take it, and I..." He pursed his lips, his forehead wrinkled in worry. Bjørn detected fatigue and frustration in Tino's feeble voice. It was nothing atypical for a new Omega-father he wanted to say, but Tino's cry was desperate. "I can't even feed my own pup," he said sadly.

                _Well_ , _that's as good a plea as any_ , Bjørn supposed.

                "Maybe I can feed him," he said, taking pity on the helpless Omega-father.

                Tino froze. He blinked in astonishment. "You're pregnant?" he asked. Berwald, too, looked hopeful.

                "No. But I was a fortnight ago," Bjørn admitted. "I carried a pup for twenty-five weeks, but I lost him. I had a fall. It was an accident," he said, his words stunted, refusing to look at Mikkel when he spoke them. Mikkel, who had been heartbroken by the tragic news.

                Tino's eyes were sympathetic. "I'm sorry—"

                Bjørn shook his head, dismissing it. He didn't want to linger on the unhappy loss, so he redirected the focus to Peter. "My body was already producing milk. If I can trick it into doing so again, I might be able to feed him." As he spoke, he slipped his hand into his coat, beneath his layers, and felt the subtle convexity of his still swollen chest. He pressed with his fingers, massaging himself to stimulate the flow of milk like a pup's suckling would do.

                "Will it really work?" Tino asked eagerly.

                "It might take a while, but it's worth trying. Peter needs to eat," said Bjørn, matter-of-fact.

                It was then that he caught Mikkel's leering eye, and added: "What?"

                "Nothing." The Alpha shrugged and failed to feign disinterest.

                "Oh gods, Mick, is this really turning you on?"

                "Yes," Mikkel hung his head shamefully.

                Bjørn rolled his eyes and pointed with his free hand to the opposite side of the boat. "Go sit over there."

                An amused snort followed Mikkel's retreat, and only when Bjørn had looked between his hungry, quiet pups, dismissing them as culprits, did he realize it had come from Tino, who was now smiling.

* * *

Eventually, Bjørn extended his arms for Peter and then cradled the starving Alpha-pup while he fed. Tino felt a flood of relief, closely followed by envy as he watched the other Omega do what he could not, closely followed by guilt and then gratitude. At first, he worried that Bjørn's heart was still too raw from his recent loss to feed Peter—he _looked_ raw as he adjusted the pup's weight, his eyes stony, yet sad; though he _was_ hard to read—but he soon relaxed into the familiar embrace of an Omega-father and pup, cradling Peter with ease.

                _He knows what he's doing a lot better than I do_ , Tino thought, jealous once more. Then he looked at Mikkel and Bjørn's three energetic pups and decided that the other Omega had simply had more practice.

                Once, he and Berwald had dreamt of having a whole house full of pups together, but time had crippled that dream, leaving Tino barren month after month for years since he and Berwald had been pair-bonded. Neither of them had wanted to acknowledge it—that Tino couldn't conceive—but both of them privately knew it was hopeless to hope for something that would never be. It had been a hard thing for Tino to accept, but eventually he did. What choice did he have? "I will give you a pup, my love. I swear I will," Berwald told him over-and-over again, until his words began to hurt more than they healed. But Tino shouldn't have doubted his faithful Alpha-mate, because he had kept his vow, and a month ago had presented Tino with the small, squirming bundle that was Peter. Now, Peter was their dream.

                Tino reached down and affectionately stroked his Alpha-pup's soft head, wanting to touch him despite his proximity to Bjørn, who didn't appear to care. (Bjørn kept his face turned away.)

                _I love you_ , he thought to Peter, hoping that the pup knew; hoping that he could sense it in Tino's touch. _Even though I'm not the one feeding you_ ; _even though I didn't give birth to you_ ; _even though I don't know what the fuck I'm doing_ , _I love you_ , _Peter. You're my precious little miracle and I love you_.

                After a brief argument regarding Tino's well-being—"sleep while he's feeding, otherwise you'll be dead-on-your-feet and no use to anyone," Mikkel said knowingly—he left Peter in Bjørn's capable care and balefully retreated to Berwald's side. There, he collapsed like an exhausted toddler, too tired to lift even a finger for himself. He trusted Berwald to keep an eye on the North-Westerners, and let the Alpha manipulate him into a one-armed embrace, his head resting heavily upon Berwald's warm chest, and exhaled the blissful sigh of someone about to sleep for the first time in days.

                "Bjørn's miscarriage," Berwald said, just as Tino was drifting off. He sounded troubled, his voice lowered for privacy.

                Tino forced his eyes open, checking to make sure Bjørn was preoccupied with Peter before saying: "I know."

                Berwald's jaw tightened. "A fortnight ago is when Jens' ship arrived. It's when he saw Bjørn for the first time; when he decided he wanted him, but he didn't want him pregnant," he guessed darkly. "Jens would never mate an Omega pregnant with another Alpha's pup. Bjørn's fall was no accident. It might have _looked_ like an accident, but it wasn't. It was Jens—"

                " _I know_ ," Tino repeated, a harsh whispered warning. "But for gods' sake, don't tell them that."

                "They deserve to know," Berwald argued, looking across the deck at Mikkel and Bjørn.

                Berwald detested secrets; they were no better than lies, he believed. _He's too honest for his own good_ , Tino thought, trying—and failing—to find fault with his Alpha-mate's honourable nature. He loved Berwald's honesty—he trusted it implicitly—but the Alpha's blunt tongue was known to hurt (or insult) others without intention.

                When Tino didn't reply, Berwald repeated: "They deserve to know the truth."

                "The truth? That a rival clan-member murdered their unborn pup so that he could rape Bjørn—?" Tino shook his head. "No one deserves that knowledge, Berwald. It's kinder to let them think it was an accident."

                Berwald sighed in reluctant agreement, still looking across the deck. Even though he didn't like Mikkel and, as an Alpha, felt threatened by him, he seemed to understand that Mikkel's family were not exiles by choice, like he and Tino were. He seemed to understand that everything had been taken from them by the arrival of _his_ clan to their homeland, and because of that—because of his cousin, Jens—they would never see their home again. He didn't like Mikkel (hated him, in fact), but at least Berwald seemed to understand the Alpha's position.

                But just in case he didn't, Tino thought. Just in case Berwald felt honour-bound to tell the truth in future and inadvertently caused their hosts to relive unimaginable heartbreak, he squeezed the Alpha's big hand, and said rather sternly:

                "Leave it be, Berwald. They've already suffered enough."

* * *

You okay?" Mikkel asked, crouching at Bjørn's side.

                He rested his elbows on his knees and cocked his head, annoyed when his long, tangled hair flopped into his face. (He would ask Bjørn to brush and re-braid it later, when the Omega didn't look so depressed.)

                Andrias and Emil had abandoned the hnefatafl board and were now playing a game of kubb across the deck, careful not to pitch the pieces overboard, and Kujâk was napping in a nest of fur beneath the sail, the sun dappling his rosy cheeks. ( _Rosy_ , _or sunburnt_ —? he worried briefly.)

                Bjørn was staring vacantly at the horizon, holding Peter snug against his chest as the Alpha-pup fed.

                To anyone else, he probably looked content, his fair face as concealed as ever, but Mikkel saw the grief in his eyes and heard the strain in his voice:

                "It should be our pup, Mick."

                The words pierced Mikkel's heart. "I know," he said gently.

                Bjørn swallowed and instinctively hugged Peter closer. "I'm sorry—"

                "No." Mikkel dropped to his knees and cupped the Omega's face in both hands, turning his head. He made Bjørn look at him. "It wasn't your fault."

                Bjørn's eyes glassed over before he blinked the tears away. "I feel so fucking stupid," he admitted, upset with himself. "After everything that's happened to us, I'm crying over something I lost a fortnight ago, all because of..." He indicated Peter.

                "Norge," Mikkel said seriously, lowering his hand to Bjørn's shoulder and squeezing. "You're allowed to feel sad about it. I'm sad," he confessed shamelessly. "I'm really fucking sad. And fucking angry with myself, because it's my fault. I wasn't there to protect you. Gods, I'm never fucking there—"

                Bjørn placed a finger over Mikkel's lips to silence him. "If I can't take the blame for it, then you can't either," he said.

                Mikkel deflated. "Deal," he agreed. "But I _am_ sorry, Norge, for both of us—all of us," he added, knowing how excited his pups had been, too.

                He sat down beside Bjørn, wrapped his arm around him, and tried not to remember how it had felt to hold his Omega-mate in their bed in the longhouse, a pup feeding at his chest, and two more curled like wolf-cubs against his side. Mikkel had been so pleased by Bjørn's fourth pregnancy that he had told everyone about it, despite Bjørn's advice that they wait. He had been so proud of himself and his family. And he had gotten their pups excited about the new addition, as well, too certain that nothing would go wrong for them; too certain that he could protect them from anything.

                The day Bjørn miscarried, Mikkel had been with the other pack-leaders welcoming the Oxenstierna family to the clan. He had been aboard the North-Easterner's boat, talking with the Clan Leader; Bjørn had been on the pier with the other Omegas, greeting their guests as they disembarked. It had been loud and crowded and boisterous, but Mikkel would never forget the shriek that broke the din. It wasn't Bjørn, but another Omega who screamed as Bjørn fell off the pier onto the rocks. Bjørn hadn't made a sound. His face had revealed shock, then fear as he tumbled back, wrapping his arms around his middle before falling out of Mikkel's sight. The Alpha had re-lived that moment every night in his nightmares: the moment when Bjørn's terrified eyes met his, as if he already knew what fate awaited their unborn pup.

                They wouldn't let him in to see Bjørn afterward. A stubborn Omega matron guarded the sickroom door and told Mikkel he had to wait while they tended to Bjørn. He had thought the waiting was the worst part, the horrible not knowing what was happening to his Omega-mate and pup, but it wasn't. The worst part was finally being allowed in and seeing the look on Bjørn's pale face. At first he looked entranced, like his mind was somewhere else, his eyes open but unseeing. Then, when they were finally alone together, his gaze shifted slowly to Mikkel's and his violet eyes filled with tears. The worst part was seeing his Omega-mate break down and sob in despair, clutching the Alpha so tightly that his fingernails left crescents in Mikkel's skin, and knowing that their little pup was dead. He had never see Bjørn cry like that before. And it hurt him. It hurt him bad.

                Mikkel rested his head on Bjørn's shoulder, now, and tried not to think of it. Gently, he rubbed the Omega's back, his body still bruised from the rocks.

                _I'm sorry_ , he thought, despite their deal not to place blame. _I'm so_ , _so sorry._

                After a while, it was Bjørn who finally spoke:

                "I want another pup, Mick."

                "Me, too," he said without hesitance. Then: "How long?"

                _How long until your body is healed enough to conceive again_? _How long until you go into Heat_?

                "I don't know. Another fortnight, I think."

                Mikkel kissed Bjørn's neck. "Then in a fortnight I'll put a pup in your belly."

                He felt Bjørn swallow. "Promise?" his Omega-mate asked.

                "I promise."

                "It won't be a replacement," Bjørn said, quiet but fierce.

                "No," Mikkel agreed. And he smiled. "It'll be an Islander."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I recently learnt that baby puffins are legitimately called 'pufflings', and it was too cute not to include (especially in a story with young Iceland xD)! So, 'pufflings' is now officially what Mikkel affectionately calls his children in all of my APH AUs. :P
> 
> Thank-you so much for reading! I hope you continue to enjoy! :D


	31. Wanderlust – Chapter Three

Alfred, take Mikkel's family inside," Gil ordered.

                Al wanted to argue that his playing the host would dismiss him, the second-in-command (in-training), from the proceedings—and a confrontation perhaps—but Gil's tone was frank and his words were not a request. His red eyes held the Northern leader in place, like a sheepdog watching a threat. He didn't look away, not even when the Omegas passed by him, which impressed Al. It was truly amazing to watch his brother-by-mating-law become the pack-leader. Gil's expression stilled into a reticent mask and his body seemed to grow bigger, always prepared for the worst. It baffled Al how scary he could look, and how fast he could move if need be. Though the Northern Alphas looked physically stronger, built more like Ivan, Al liked Gil's chances if their negotiation deteriorated into a sudden attack. He knew how talented a fighter Gil was—undefeated in the Kirkland pack—as Gil had begun instructing Al in combat, too (much to Arthur's vexation). He wished he could stay and test the skills he had been learning from his Alpha relatives, but Gil's stark look did not invite suggestion just then, so he retreated. Grudgingly, he acknowledged that his being a young Omega benefited the family more than him being the second-in-command right now, because it benefited the likelihood of Mikkel and Berwald playing nice. He doubted that either one of them would have let his Omega-mate and pups be escorted away into the company of strange Alphas, after all.

                All of this went quickly through Al's head as he led the Northerners to the house and then extended his hand, inviting them inside.

                Arthur and Matt were already standing in the entrance, waiting to receive them, and both of them, Al noted, had changed into his best clothes. Doubtless, they had been spying on the party from the window and had taken the opportunity to make himself look presentable. It was a very Omega thing to do. (Though, _presentable_ was a subjective description in Matt's case, as he now only fit into the Alphas' clothes, which had been tailored loosely to fit him.) Al spared a glance for his Omega-father, but it was his brother who stepped forward.

                _He really does look like the pack-leader's Omega-mate_ , he thought, ill-fitting clothes or not. It still surprised him whenever Matt looked someone directly in the eye, because the shy Omega-pup had spent most of his life looking down. _I'm proud of you_ , _Mattie_ , he smiled, thinking that Matt somehow looked taller with his gaze lifted.

                "Welcome to the Kirkland pack," Matt said, a soft, receptive smile on his lips, "and to our home." He bowed his head, enough to be respectful, but not enough to yield his position.

                The taller of the two Northern Omegas—Mikkel's mate—mirrored the gesture in wordless acknowledgement. Al marvelled at his grace; he moved like the chords of a song.

                "My name is Matthew Kirkland," said Matt. "This is my brother, Alfred, the pack's second-in-command; and my Omega-father, Arthur. I sincerely apologize if my Alpha-mate offended you," he added, a sliver of shyness peaking through. "He's very cautious."

                The Northerner's vibrant eyes— _the same violet as Matt and Ivan's_ , Al noticed—looked from Matt's face to his swollen abdomen and back. "He has good reason to be," he said, accepting the apology. "How far along are you?"

                "Thirty-six weeks," Matt replied, blushing.

                "Your first," said the Northerner. It wasn't a question, but Matt nodded anyway.

                "My name is Bjørn," he introduced himself. "My Alpha-mate is Mikkel Densen, pack-leader of the Densen clan in the North-West. My pups, Andrias, Emil, and Kujâk; and my brother," he somehow indicated the other Omega without moving an inch, "Tino, and his pup, Peter. His Alpha-mate is Berwald Oxenstierna of the North-East. We're grateful for your hospitality."

                Bjørn didn't look or sound grateful, but Al blamed it on fatigue.

                "Please, come in," Matt extended his hand, inviting the Northerners to sit by the smoldering hearth while he and Arthur went to work preparing a meal.

                "You must be starving," Al said in pity, and immediately got a reprimanding glare from Arthur, which he felt was unwarranted. _What_? _It's the truth_.

                "We've managed," Bjørn said coldly, though his pride was undermined by Kujâk tugging on his coat.

                "Papa," he whispered, his black eyes big and pleading, " _I'm_ hungry. I'm really, _really_ hungry."

                Bjørn sighed.

                Matt smiled, and said: "Tea and scones in just a moment, little one. And warm cream for the newborn—?"

                Tino looked sheepish. "Peter's not yet weaned," he said, then passed the squirming bundle to Bjørn, who—habitually, and without pretense—unbuttoned his clothes to let the pup suckle.

                Al felt himself instinctively turn away, embarrassed on Bjørn's behalf. "Do you want somewhere private to, uh... do that?" he offered.

                "No," said Bjørn, colder still.

                "Alfred, will you fetch the tea-chest, please?" Arthur ordered.

                In the kitchen, the Omega-father smacked his pup in the back of the head. "And I was worried about Scott insulting them," he grumbled. "I should've been more worried about _you_ , Alfred."

                Al frowned. "What—? It's _my_ fault that he decided to strip five minutes into the conversation? Would _you_ do that in a stranger's home?"

                "Feed my starving pup? Yes," said Arthur curtly, "I would. I suggest you get used to the sight," he added as Matt entered.

                "Well, they think you're a prude, Al," he said delightedly.

                "What— _me_?" Al gaped. He couldn't believe his ears. He was a hunter! He swam naked with Alphas! He knew more bawdy jokes than anyone else! (—except, maybe, for Gil; Gil had lived in a fort.) " _I'm not a prude_!" he whispered harshly in defense.

                Matt stifled laughter in his hands.

                "Take this out," Arthur said, pushing a serving-trey into Al's hands, "and apologise for your rudeness."

                Al rolled his eyes, but grudgingly complied.

                _I'm the second-in-command_ , _I shouldn't be in here serving guests like an Omega-mate_ ; _I should be outside with the Alphas. I shouldn't have to sit in here making pleasantries and having tea and watching some Omega feed a newborn_!

                Al faced enough resistance already being an Omega second-in-command. What would the pack-members say if they knew he was being omitted from the negotiations and forced to play house with his Omega-father and brother instead?

                The Northerners had discarded their heavy outerwear—coats and cloaks folded neatly in a pile by the door—and were busy washing-up with lilac soap and a basin of water, which Matt had procured. The three pups seemed to know the routine, because they were quiet and didn't fuss as they cleaned their hands and faces under their Omega-father's scrutinizing eye. Tino helped the youngest, scrubbing his cheeks until they were rosy, and then his fingernails until the grime was gone. It looked suspiciously like charcoal to Al, who decided that little Kujâk was the family artist. His black eyes grew wide when he saw the serving-trey Al brought, laden with fruits, cheese, and hard bread, and he wondered how long it had been since the Northerners had eaten anything besides fish and barley porridge.

                "Papa, may we—?" Emil asked eagerly, trying his best to look dignified whilst salivating.

                Bjørn nodded his consent.

                Tino sat cross-legged on the wool rug with the pups, looking just as eager as they with his big, round eyes. He held Kujâk on his lap and smiled at Emil, who whispered so softly Al didn't hear it. It was a very domestic picture they made, with the hearth at their backs and the demure smiles on their faces, something Al recognized as being universal to all of the Omegas he knew, and he was glad to see it here. The Northerners had all looked rather defensive outside, not just the Alphas, and Al had wondered at—worried at—how they would behave indoors, but he needn't have. _They were afraid outside_ , he knew, generous in understanding, _but all Omegas—except me—feel better indoors. It's where they belong. It's where they feel safe and happiest._ Like Tino, he thought, whose face looked friendly now that he was not guarding his newborn against a pack of hostile Alphas. This made sense to Al. He had seen it countless times in his Omega-father and brother, and other pack-members, too. It was familiar to him, which was a comfort.

                But Bjørn was not a comfort. Bjørn was something else.

                Al set the serving-trey on the floor at Bjørn's feet, deliberately avoiding eye-contact with the older Omega. There was something about his cold scrutiny that Al found intimidating, though he was reluctant to admit it. He had never felt undermined by an Omega before, especially not one who, at that very moment, was feeding a newborn. He should have looked the least threatening, the most domestic of them all, playing the obedient Omega-mate and father, but he didn't. The mystery of Bjørn—the glacial beauty and grace of him; the knowledge in his eyes; the whisper of nobility—revealed something alien that made Al feel suddenly inadequate as an Omega, himself, reducing him to a scolded pup in the presence of someone greater. Bjørn's presence was not that of a caretaker and homemaker, but of a High Omega, a ruler of houses, of Alphas and Omegas alike. It was something Al didn't understand and didn't like. He hated how small Bjørn made him feel, even though he outranked the Northerner—he being the Kirkland's second-in-command, while Bjørn was merely the Omega-mate of a refugee.

                _Don't look at me like that_ , he thought, kneeling to place the trey. He could feel Bjørn's cold eyes staring down at him. _Don't underestimate me_. _I've been through too much to be looked down upon by someone like you_.

                And yet—

                When their gazes met, Al hastily looked away.

                _Godsdamn it_! he cursed.

                Suddenly, he yearned to escape the suffocating politeness and domesticity of the house and rejoin the Alphas outside.

                "You're new to your position as second, aren't you?" Bjørn said, weaving the question into a mere statement. "You're less than a year pair-bonded, and you don't have pups."

                Al failed to see how being second-in-command and having a family were connected, but he shook his head. "Are you judging me for not having pups?" he asked, crossing his arms.

                "Why shouldn't I? You're judging me for mine."

                Al opened his mouth to deny it, but stopped. "I'm sorry," he said instead.

                Bjørn's gaze was unyielding in its paternal reproach, making him look so alike a younger—taller—Arthur that Al felt thoroughly chastised. Bjørn may have been half undressed to suckle a pup, but it was Al who felt uncomfortably exposed by those analytical violet eyes.

                "You're walking a difficult path, Alfred Kirkland," Bjørn said after a long, tense pause, "and I commend you for that, but don't be so quick to judge and dismiss the roles of Omegas as being less important than those of Alphas. Both genders have strengths and weaknesses that you have the unique opportunity to exploit. A clever leader would not waste one in favour of the other."

                Al blinked— _did he just give me... advice_?—then slowly nodded, feeling somehow scolded and encouraged at the same time.

                Bjørn's tone was full of confidence, self-importance, and Al suddenly understood why Gil had ordered him to be the Northerners' escort. It wasn't to discredit Al as the second-in-command, but, rather, a wordless way of showing their guests the utmost respect by acknowledging and honouring the Omegas' positions.                                                          

                _Bjørn's not just Mikkel's Omega-mate_ , he realized, _he's the Alpha's advisor and confidant_ , _just like Mattie is Gil's_. _His word holds just as much weight as Mikkel's—maybe more_ , he thought, considering the pups. _If Bjørn feels threatened by us_ , _if he doesn't think his pups are safe_ , _then he'll tell Mikkel_ , _and Mikkel will..._ Al didn't want to think of what the Northern Alpha might do. _They're double-teaming us_. _This_ —he regarded the illusion of domesticity— _is just a much subtler kind of negotiation. Bjørn's watching us_ , _judging us_ , _collecting information to report back to Mikkel. This isn't just a tea_ , _it's a reconnaissance mission_!

                _And Dad and Matt both know that_ , he realized, impressed (and embarrassed he hadn't translated it sooner).

                Arthur's horror at Al insulting the Northerners—accidentally or not—suddenly seemed like a legitimate fear: " _apologize for your rudeness_ ," he had said. And Al did:

                "I really am sorry," he said, bowing his head in repentance. "I didn't mean to offend you."

                Bjørn regarded the younger Omega dismissively. "I'm an Omega of the far North," he said. "Do not think that words can hurt me, Alfred Kirkland."

* * *

That was needless teasing," Tino said when Al had left. He eyed his companion in bemused reproach.

                Bjørn chuckled, his glacial facade softening into amusement. "I know," he said, shifting Peter's weight from the right side to the left, "but I couldn't resist. He has too much potential to waste on misogyny. It's bad enough when Alphas disrespect the role of Omegas in the pack; it would be shameful for an Omega second-in-command to do the same."

                Tino nodded in agreement. It was hard not to admire Bjørn's tenacity, an Omega who had always been proud of who and what he was, nor hard to see the High Omega he had been born to be. He wielded his patriarchal influence like an Alpha commanding his pack; a kinder, more nurturing commander, but no less a warrior inside. It made Tino wish that his own Omega-mother had ingrained such fierce pride and self-confidence in him, but he and Bjørn had grown-up living very different lives, and his Omega-mother had died long before Tino's first Heat. Perhaps if she had lived to guide him into adulthood; if she had had the chance to nurture his self-worth and taken the same care with him that Bjørn's Omega-father had, things would have been different. He couldn't deny that he envied Bjørn his early-life, having always known his worth; having always had supportive Alphas and a devoted Omega-father by his side.

                Tino had seen Bjørn's Omega-father only briefly, and never spoken to him, but the picture would be forever ingrained in his memory. It was uncanny how alike he and Bjørn were (and Emil, too; Tino could already see the adult the Omega-pup would become), in looks, yes, but also in the way they moved, and spoke, and regarded the world around them. Bjørn's Omega-father was revered as a shaman, called _gods-sent_ by some and _witch_ by others, but he was admired and respected—and feared—by all. Tino had never wondered at Bjørn's oddities, or where he had learnt his talents; one look at the Thomassen leader's Omega-mate had revealed it all. Bjørn had, doubtless, inherited traits from his Alpha-father, who was a proud and stubborn warrior, but it didn't take a fortune-teller to know that he was his Omega-father's pup inside-and-out. He was the descendent of an old Omega bloodline, whose powers, steeped in the Old Religion, had made them famous—and coveted—for their connection to the gods, who seemed to favour them above all others. If the rumours were true, then Bjørn's line had been hunted and killed by superstitious clans afraid of their powers, the prophecies they spoke, but Tino still envied them. What must it have felt like to have such power over Alphas? What must it have been like to strike fear into the hearts of warriors with a single, piercing look? There was a time when Tino would have sold his soul for such influence; now, he was glad he had never had the chance. In hindsight, Bjørn's Omega-father had been lucky that the Densen clan accepted his gifts and not murdered Bjørn in the womb.

                "He'll be a good leader someday," Bjørn predicted, speaking of Al. His voice broke a silence that Tino had not even been aware of, so used to Bjørn's quiet contemplation by now.

                " _Someday_?" he asked.

                Bjørn nodded. "Yes, but for now he's still much too young. He hasn't learnt humility yet, nor the difference between pride and arrogance. Controversy will be good for him. He'll thrive on it, eager to prove himself, and in doing so he'll learn to think for himself, which all great leaders must do. It will take time, and he will struggle more than not, but history will remember his name."

                Tino shook his head at the Omega who had become his surrogate brother. "Sometimes I think you really do have the gift of foresight, Bee." He smiled affectionately. "And other times I think you're stark raving-mad."

                "It's a fine line," Bjørn agreed.

* * *

They're really good eaters," Matt praised, watching the three pups devour anything— _everything_ —Arthur put in front of them without complaint.

                Bjørn nodded, silently criticising the Islander's needless comment. North-borns did not have the luxury of being picky eaters; the climate was harsh and the growing season too short. If you didn't eat what was in front of you, you didn't eat at all, and all three of his pups knew that. They had felt the hollowness of empty bellies too recently to refuse what they were given now. _Food is a chore_ , _not a luxury_ , Bjørn thought with martyr-like pride. No one in their clan—no local or visitor—had ever commented on the food, because good or bad, it didn't matter. Few of their pack-members starved each winter and that's what was important.

                "I'm afraid that Peter is a bit fussy," Tino said conversationally. (Bjørn secretly blamed it on the pup being an Islander and not a North-born.) "But I'm hoping he grows out of it."

                Matt smiled and asked Tino about Peter, and Bjørn realized that, perhaps, he was being too uncharitable to the young Omega-father-to-be. He had to remind himself—again—what it was like to be an ignorant first-time parent, and grudgingly recalled his own tactic of trial-and-error. (Really, it was a miracle that Andrias had turned out so well.)

                In secret apology, he said: "You and your Alpha-mate must be very excited." He indicated Matt's abdomen.

                Matt's smile migrated to his eyes. "Yes," he said, "very excited, and... nervous. It's our first," he repeated with a coy laugh. "I just hope it goes well."

                "The birth's not the hard part," Bjørn said, a degree of wicked glee in his tone. His gaze slid to his pups and back. "Being an Omega-father is much harder."

                "It's true," Tino agreed. He was rocking Peter as he paced, trying to coax the newborn to sleep. "I'm sure your Omega-father will tell you the same, the worrying never stops."

                Bjørn didn't miss the subtle glance from Matt to Arthur, whose dismissive smile looked reassuring but tired. _This family is no stranger to hardship_ , he read in the exchange. _They've endured tragedy_ , _like we have._

                "I wouldn't worry about the birth," he continued, before an awkward silence settled. "You have a good figure, fit for bearing pups, Matthew. You'll be fine."

                "See?" said Arthur, gently scolding his pup. "I keep telling you there's nothing to fear. You'll have the whole family to guard you and me by your side. You won't be alone like I was."

                "Were you?" Bjørn asked, feeling a sudden unlikely kinship with the elder Islander. "So was I, with Andrias.

                "Well, not _completely_ alone," he amended, "Mikkel was there, but we were both young and afraid.

                "We were alone in the mountains," he began, noticing his rapt audience.

                He might have been known for his silence on most occasions—" _that's Mikkel Densen's Omega-mate_ , _the one who never speaks to anyone else_ "—until there was a story to tell. That's when Bjørn's cold facade thawed and he took centre stage. The players would pluck their strings and the Omega's serene voice would fill the longhouse. Even Al sat forward in intrigue, now, like a fish hooked by a single, silvery line.

                "We had gone for a hike to our—our tree," he said, a trifle embarrassed. "I was thirty-eight weeks pregnant, but we thought it would be okay. My Omega-father had delivered me at precisely forty-weeks without complications, and I felt fine, so we went. We never dreamed he might be born early," he said, smiling ruefully at the Alpha-pup in question: Andrias, who was sitting quietly by the hearth, listening to a repeat of the story he already knew. "The tree wasn't far from the longhouse, but it was raining hard by the time we turned back, and Mick and I took shelter in an old watchtower. We thought it was exciting being trapped together in the storm... until the labour-pains started.

                "At first, we thought something was horribly wrong and we panicked. Mick tried to call for help, but his howl was lost in the storm."

                As Bjørn spoke, he recalled the day of Andrias' tumultuous birth. In his memory, he heard himself panicking:

                " _Mick_! _It's the pup—it's coming now_!"

                He saw his white-faced Alpha-mate nod in understanding, and heard his deep, determined voice say: " _Okay_.

                " _Okay_ ," he repeated, stripping off his cloak and preparing a bed. " _It's going to be okay_ , _Norge._ _I'm going to make it okay._ "

                " _I don't know what to do_ ," Bjørn confessed, squeezing his Alpha-mate's hand. He was only sixteen-years-old and scared. " _I want my Omega-father_. _I don't want to do this alone_."

                " _You're not alone_ ," said Mikkel fiercely, kissing Bjørn's head; holding tightly to his hand. " _You've got me. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. We're in this together_ , _okay_? _I won't leave you_."

                "I think my labour lasted as long as the storm," Bjørn mused, now, "though, it was all such a blur back then."

                "An Alpha delivered your pup?" Arthur interrupted, scandalized.

                "My _Alpha-mate_ ," Bjørn corrected, giving weight to the title. "Alphas are not as bad at midwifery as you may expect. It's they we turn to when we're scared, isn't it? It's they we look to for protection. Mick might've been clueless about the birthing process, but he kept me calm and he made me feel safe. He promised he would take care of us—Andrias and I—and he did."

                " _I've got you_ ," Mikkel said in Bjørn's memory. His hands held firmly beneath each of Bjørn's spread knees, keeping the prostrate Omega anchored. Bjørn dug his bare heels into the Alpha's shoulders as he threw back his head, his teeth clenched in pain. " _I've got you_ , _Norge. I won't let go. Push against me_ , min skat _. It's going to be okay. Just push._ "

                And push he had, until Mikkel finally released his legs to pull the slippery, howling Alpha-pup from his body.

                Andrias had been small, two weeks premature, but Bjørn had not been afraid for him. As long as Mikkel was by his side, he would never be afraid.

* * *

Matt listened intently to the narrative, his heart beating harder with each word, as if Bjørn was telling a horror story and not the mundane tale of his first-born's birth. He blamed it on the Northerner's natural gift for storytelling, which brought to mind the legendary poets of arcadia. The room seemed to fall away as his calm, undulating voice filled the silence, adding all the right inflections in all the right places, like a musician inventing a song. Bjørn's voice replaced the house and hearth with  such a visceral scene from far, far away that Matt felt like he could see the old watchtower, hear the rain, smell the blood. He didn't even realize he was twisting his shall into anxious folds until Arthur reached over and placed a reassuring hand atop his, stilling them.

                "The truth is," Bjørn concluded, "I've never given birth without Mikkel. I had midwives with Emil and Kujâk, and both births were easier for it—they were easier anyway; the first is the hardest—but Mick has always been by my side. It may be unconventional and others will tell you it's inappropriate, but it's worth it. Being in labour is not when you want to feel distanced from your Alpha. Trust me," he said, this time looking directly at Matt.

                Matt nodded meekly, his head reeling. _Could we really do that_? he wondered, daring to hope. _Could Gil be with me in the birthing-room_?

                Arthur would never allow it: " _It just isn't done_!" he would say. He was having a hard enough time keeping his lips pinched now, Matt noticed.

                But he had to admit—privately, at least—that the mere thought of having Gil with him _did_ make him feel less afraid, and he found himself agreeing with Bjørn's logic. Gil had protected him from everything else in the world, why not labour as well?

                "What a ludicrous notion!" Arthur said in the kitchen. His voice was a low whisper, so soft an Alpha wouldn't have heard. "Alphas in the birthing-room, what next?" He shook his head.

                For all of Arthur's liberties, he, like his brothers, held fast to Islander tradition, and change rarely came into the Kirkland household without a fight. The fact that they accepted Matt's Western ex-soldier still surprised him more often than not, though there were times during loud, verbal arguments that he honestly feared his uncles might throw Gil out. Stubbornness and entitlement burned hot in Gil and Scott both, and Matt had found himself braced between them more than once, pleading for a peaceful resolution. ("Why can't you just be patient with them, Gil, like Ivan is?" he had said after one such row, and immediately regretted it. The way Gil's flushed face had twisted jealously at being compared to Ivan was enough to make Matt feel guilty—and secretly aroused, but he blamed his pregnancy for that.)

                Usually Matt stayed neutral about household changes, especially if they were petty complaints between his bickering relatives, but this time he spoke up:

                "Why?" he asked Arthur, refilling the kettle and hanging it to boil. He didn't know why, but he felt strongly inclined to defend Bjørn. "Dad, you've told us often enough that you were—and I quote— _scared half-crazy_ when Al and I were born. Wouldn't you have been less afraid if Papa had been there?"

                "Maybe," Arthur admitted, "but only by necessity. I didn't have an Omega-parent in my life. You do," he said, as if he wasn't referring to himself, "and I'll not let you out of my sight, I promise. You'll be perfectly safe, Alpha or no. I've delivered hundreds of pups," he exaggerated. "I'd like to think I know a good deal more about pregnancy than Gilbert Beilschmidt.

                "Don't fret," he added softer, noticing Matt's hesitance. "There's a reason why Alphas are forbidden from the birthing-room, love. It's to protect _them_."

                Matt frowned, puzzled by that.

                "Giving birth is a rather loud, messy, sometimes dangerous process, and it's painful. Alphas don't want to see their Omega-mate's in pain," Arthur explained. "It makes them feel helpless, and guilty—sometimes it turns them off mating altogether. They don't like things they can't control, which is why so many of them become paranoid around a pregnant Omega. It's something they can't feel, so they can't understand it. They can't predict it, so they can't fight it. Gilbert is already worried for your safety, Matthew. Don't frighten him further."

                Arthur smiled placidly and then returned to the main room; Matt stayed in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil and contemplating his Omega-father's words.

                He felt conflicted, now. Bjørn's confession had touched his heart and quieted his fears, but how could he not trust Arthur's sagely advice? How could he choose to believe a stranger over the Omega-father who loved him?

                _I'll ask Gil_ , he decided, gently rubbing his abdomen. _I'll let him decide for himself. He'll prefer that. We've never talked about it before_ , _and he might be horrified by the thought of the birthing-room_ , _just like Dad thinks. He might not want to be there. I might be worrying for nothing..._

                And yet, Gil was much more alike Mikkel than any Islander whom Matt knew. He may have only spied the Northerner from the window, but the way he spoke, the way he held himself, the way he regarded his surroundings, all reminded Matt of Gil. Gil was more disciplined, more subtle, but their natural instincts seemed the same. The way Mikkel had guarded his family, fearlessly facing a pack of strangers, and risking all to protect them, reminded Matt of Gil and Gil's promises. _I'll love you and our pups until the day I die_ , _and if I die trading my life for yours then I'll go to the afterlife with no regrets_. And if that wasn't evidence enough, the way Bjørn talked about Mikkel proved it. The blind loyalty and unshakable confidence he had in his Alpha was familiar to Matt, and he felt a kinship with Bjørn that he couldn't explain. He found that he trusted the Northern Omega for no good reason at all, except for the one thing they seemed to have in common: their Alpha-mates.

                Matt loved his parents dearly, but he didn't see much of himself and Gil in Arthur and Francis' relationship.

                He _did_ see he and Gil in Bjørn and Mikkel's.

                The whistling kettle shocked him back to the present and he resolved to talk to Gil about everything later. It was Matt's role as the pack-leader's Omega-mate to act as a diplomat, and Gil had allowed the two Northern Omegas into the house trusting to his wits, but more so his discretion. Matt had always been good at playing the roles he was given, which recently included host and Kirkland family patron (in-training—Arthur wasn't ready to give that up quite yet), but the thing he cherished most was Gil's trust. He was truly flattered that the Alpha valued his opinion above all others, and, in return, always tried to give Gil an honest one.

                _When he asks me about the Northerners_ , _I'll tell him the truth_.

                Matt filled the teapot with hot water from the kettle, but nearly dropped the lot when a sharp pain suddenly jolted up his spine.

                He managed to swallow a mouthful of profanity as he lowered himself carefully into a chair, rubbing hard at his abdomen, and breathing deeply like Arthur had taught him.

                " _The first is the hardest_ ," Bjørn's voice echoed in Matt's head.

                _I really hope not_ , he thought, waiting for the false contractions to cease. _For Gil's sake_ , _I hope it's all okay._

* * *

Well—?" Mikkel asked when he and Bjørn were reunited.

                The Alpha looked weary, but not yet defeated. He needed a bath and a decent meal, not rationed, and a good night's sleep, but he was no less determined now than when they had set sail two months ago. In fact, he reminded Bjørn of a wolf, the sigil of the Densen clan, which Mikkel had always worn with pride. He would never wear it again, now, which would depress him, but Bjørn didn't think he needed the pendent to look like a warrior. Even now, in clothes that needed mending, his hair a mane of braided tangles, and an axe strapped to his belt, he looked like an old wolf, grizzled and greying, perhaps, but not without strength in his bones and a fight in his heart.

                Bjørn leant up and kissed him. "It was a nicer reception that I expected," he reported. "They spared nothing in the way of food and hot water. Tino is with Arthur, now—the present patron," he explained—"finding clean clothes for us to sleep in. He and his Omega-pups have been very accommodating.

                "Matthew—Gilbert's Omega-mate," he added, "is thirty-six weeks pregnant. He's only fifteen, it's their first."

                Mikkel's shoulders dropped and his facial muscles relaxed into an expression of sudden understanding. " _Oh_! That makes so much sense," he acknowledged. "It's no wonder Gilbert's so protective of his home then, even if it does make him act like a dick."

                Bjørn lifted an eyebrow. "You're one to talk, Mick. I seem to recall _someone_ growling at everyone who looked at me the first time I was pregnant. And Matthew Kirkland is just as young and frightened as I was then. Don't judge Gilbert too harshly," he advised.

                "He knows what he's doing, I'll give him that," Mikkel acknowledged, business-like again. "He's no stranger to negotiation, and he's as thorough as a fort commander. A good one." He rolled his eyes, bemoaning the late hour. It had been a tediously long discussion and they were all tired and hungry.

                "It's been a long day," Bjørn agreed.

                Mikkel sighed. "I'll be glad to lie down and sleep with a roof over my head. They're preparing the guesthouse for us now. _We'll talk more in the morning_ ," he mocked the Westerner's voice.

                Bjørn chuckled.

                "What do you think of them, Norge? _Really_?" Mikkel asked after a moment. "Can we trust them?"

                Bjørn leant against Mikkel and smiled. "Yes, I believe so," he said. "I like them."

* * *

You like them—?" Gil asked, eyeing his Omega-mate dubiously.

                "Yes," Matt replied, turning down the covers on their bed and fluffing the pillows, "I like them. I don't think they're all that different from us."

                Gil grumbled as he tugged off his shirt. "Did the pack-leader's mate mention anything about him?" he asked, crawling into the bed beside Matt.

                "Yes, he implied that Mikkel's a good Alpha-mate and father. Those aren't things to dismiss, Gil," he added when Gil merely grunted. "If an Alpha isn't good to his own family, do you really think he's fit to lead? I don't think it was his position as pack-leader that made him the Alpha he is—"

                "An arrogant dick?" Gil cut-in. Matt ignored him.

                "—and I don't think Bjørn would talk so fondly of someone he didn't trust."

                "And you trust him, do you? Bjørn?" Gil guessed.

                Matt nodded. "I do. I really don't think they mean us any harm."

                Gil sighed and sat back, his shoulder stiff with knots. "It's not their intention that worries me," he admitted. "It's what they'll attract."

                Neither of them spoke for a time, both deep in thought as he contemplated everything he had learnt. Finally, Matt settled down and Gil followed and he laid his head on Gil's bare chest, feeling warm and safe in his Alpha-mate's embrace. Gil rested his hand on Matt's abdomen and smiled when he felt a kick.

                "I won't risk you," he said, breaking the silence. "If it comes down to you or them, you know I'll choose you."

                "I know." Pause. "Gil—?"

                " _Hmm_?"

                "About our pup... the birth, I mean. I wanted to ask you..."

                "Yes—?" Gil prompted, suddenly alert. He sat up, dislodging Matt, his red eyes reflecting the bright starlight. "What is it? What's wrong? Is something wrong? What are you scared of, _schatzi_? Tell me. I'll fix it," he said, looking just as worried and confused as Arthur had described.

                "No, nothing's wrong, love. I just... Would you stay with me when it happens? Would you be in the birthing-room if you could?"

                "Yes."

                " _Yes_ —?" Matt repeated in surprise. He, too, sat up. "Just like that, just— _yes_?"

                "Of course," Gil confirmed, eager now. "Can we do that? Are we allowed to do that? Matt," he said when Matt failed to answer, "I may be completely useless at, err... _everything_ pregnancy-related, but if you don't mind having me there, if I won't be in the way, then I want to stay with you."

                "It's going to be pretty gross," Matt warned him. "And it could take a long time. Dad says a first birth usually does, and Bjørn confirmed it. I won't judge you if you'd rather—"

                "Do you want me there?"

                Matt didn't hesitate. He nodded. "Yes, I really do."

                Gil smiled. "Then I'll be there."

* * *

It was late, but Mikkel was not asleep. He was trying to be asleep, but the distrust in him kept him alert. Living on the ship for two months had conditioned him like a sentry on nightshift, and he found it difficult now to sleep in the quiet stillness, too used to taking his rest during the loud, busy day. Noise now comforted him; the quiet made him nervous. It's why he and not Bjørn saw the shift in the shadows and the slender figure that rose carefully from the pups' bed.

                "Em?" he said, curious.

                The guesthouse was not as big as a longhouse, but it was entirely barren except for the bedding, and Mikkel's deep voice echoed off the wooden walls. It roused Bjørn, who whispered: " _Mick_?" in concern. Mikkel hushed him. " _Go back to sleep_ , _Norge_ ," he said, gently rubbing his Omega-mate's back. Bjørn's insomnia so often prevented him from getting a good night's sleep that Mikkel felt guilty for waking him up. In the bedding beside them, Tino, too, muttered softly before returning to sleep, hugging Berwald, who was hugging Peter, neither of whom moved. The sensitivity of an Omega's ears would never fail to impress Mikkel. It was no wonder why they had slept poorly on the ship. Mikkel courteously waited a moment, letting them both relax, then turned his attention to his Omega-pup.

                "Em?" he repeated. "What's wrong?"

                The violet-eyed pup looked small standing all alone in the emptiness, dressed in a faded tartan pattern that hung off his thin frame. By process of elimination, Mikkel decided that the mild, sweet scent must be Matt's, who was the only Islander he had not yet smelled. It renewed his gratitude for the borrowed clothes, the food in their bellies, the roof over their heads, until he heard Emil's whispered voice.

                "Dad," he said seriously, his violet eyes big and unblinking, "are we safe here?"

                Mikkel heard defeat in the Omega-pup's tone, nervous but fatigued, as if he had resigned himself to fear. It made him feel guilty, as if Emil's fear was his fault.

                _I should've protected them_ , he thought, feeling the words like an old, aching wound. _I should've done better._

                "Come here," he said, reaching out. Emil came without goading, gliding silently across the floor like a specter to take Mikkel's hand. Mikkel pulled and closed his Omega-pup into a warm, one-armed embrace. Emil let himself be shifted and wrapped. He snuggled closer and buried his nose beneath Mikkel's neck, taking comfort in the proximity and his Alpha-father's scent. The tartan he wore smelled of wool and soap and Matt Kirkland, but Emil's baby-sweet scent was as pure as spring thistles. If Mikkel could, he would keep him pure like that forever; never touched; never tainted. He breathed in as he rested his cheek atop Emil's pale head, and said with confidence:

                "You're safe wherever I am."

                Emil was quiet for a moment, pensive, but his argumentative nature got the better of him. "That's not a real answer," he said.

                Mikkel chuckled. He loved and hated how much Emil was alike Bjørn. "You're right," he ceded. "You're too clever for your own good, my wee puffling," he teased, nuzzling the pup.

                "Honestly, Em? I don't know," he admitted. "I don't know what we'll find here, or for how long we'll stay. But I promise," he said seriously, squeezing Emil, "I'll do everything I can to keep you safe. All of you. Okay?"

                Emil didn't speak. In reply, he laid his head on Mikkel's shoulder, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.


	32. Wanderlust – Chapter Four

**NORTH SEA**

**SIX WEEKS AGO**

An island! Dad, it's an island!"

                Mikkel was submerged in a deep sleep, dreaming of hunting, when something touched his shoulder. A growl leapt readily from his lips even before his eyes were open, and he sat upright so fast that he nearly head-butted his eldest Alpha-pup. Andrias snatched his hand back in apology. All three of the pups knew how deeply their Alpha-father slept and how violently he awoke if not gently coaxed. But Andrias recovered fast, too excited about the discovery he had made.

                "Dad, there's an island!" he pointed.

                Mikkel yawned loudly and stretched. His whole body ached with stiff exhaustion, but the bright midday sun chased the sleep from his eyes. "An island, hmm? Where? Show me."

                Andrias led Mikkel to the bow, where Berwald was standing. Mikkel glowered.

                "I thought I told you to stay on your side," he said sulkily, ignoring the fact that Tino walked freely across the deck whenever he pleased.

                Berwald ignored him. "South-west," he said, and pointed in the direction Andrias had.

                Mikkel shielded his sight from the sun and squinted, but he could only see the endless horizon. "Where?" he repeated gruffly, grumpy from lack of sleep. "I don't see anything, Andri."

                "It's there," Andrias said, nervous of his Alpha-father's salty mood, but eager for the chance to prove himself.

                Mikkel looked again, leaning forward over the bow. "Can you see an island?" he asked Berwald.

                Berwald's reply was delayed. "No," he admitted. Mikkel huffed irritably. "But I can see a change in the water colour"—from dark blue to a paler grey—"and I can see birds."

                "Birds?" Mikkel glanced skyward. "Where?"

                "Every so often I see one, or hear one," Berwald reported, "always flying south-west. Andrias is right, there's land in that direction."

                Mikkel glared at Berwald, hating the way Andrias' face brightened at the North-Easterner's affirming words.

                "Andrias," said Bjørn, his voice cutting the tension, "describe the island for your Alpha-father. Mick, listen to him, he's always had good eyes."

                Andrias complied, eager, for once, to be the centre-of-attention. He described the shape of the landmass and then estimated the distance based on calculations Mikkel had taught him. Then he stood at the bow shielding his keen eyes against the sun, and guided his Omega-father's hand while Bjørn steered and Mikkel and Berwald rowed. Sea birds wheeled overhead and, eventually, Mikkel could see water breaking on rocks. It was a flat plain of barren ground and scraggly brush, with a few haggard trees leaning into the harsh wind. A handful of large stones had been erected by intelligent hands, but otherwise the island looked deserted.

                "Stay here," Mikkel said to Bjørn. He took an axe and then leapt overboard to scout for danger.

                Berwald followed, and together they waded to shore.

                "You go that way," Mikkel gestured, "I'll go this way. Howl if you find anything."

                Mikkel didn't trust the gift of a deserted island in the middle of the North Sea. A chance to stretch sore limbs, scavenge for food and supplies, and rest in a campsite on solid-ground; it seemed too good to be true. But the father he stalked, the more his suspicions lessened. His nose smelled salt and rocks and earth and birds, but no predators; no hostile natives or travellers. Inland, he smelled mud and sulfur and followed the offensive scent and blow of heat to a pool of steaming water. There, he met Berwald, who had successfully circumnavigated the isle.

                "A hot spring—?" Mikkel stared in disbelief.

                Berwald nodded and experimentally kicked the surface. A splash of hot water licked Mikkel's face—Mikkel growled—but nothing else stirred.

                "It's safe," said the North-Easterner.

                Mikkel wiped his chin and finally let a smile onto his face. "Bjørn's going to be really happy about this."

* * *

A hot-spring?" Bjørn's cryptic violet eyes widened a fraction, unable to hide his excitement. "You mean, a real bath?"

                "Yep!" Mikkel announced, grinning.

                Bjørn glanced over at Tino, who was already preparing Peter for the shore excursion, then to his three pups, who were vibrating with impatience—Kujâk, rolling on the balls of his feet; Emil, staring longingly at the rising steam of the hot-spring; and Andrias, who's silence couldn't hide his smug smile—and then at Mikkel, who's expression was relaxed and cheerful like it hadn't been for weeks. It made the Omega smile, too.

                "Yes," he said, permitting the venture, "going ashore sounds rather nice."

* * *

They left the knaar bobbing in the surf, weighted down by an anchor. The island may have been deserted, but it wasn't only native threats that would provoke a fast retreat if need be. If the weather turned ugly, as it so often did, the ship would be a safer place to take shelter than the wide-open plain. Besides, beaching it would mean a lot of pushing and pulling—and grunting and grumbling and growling—to secure it from the tide, and then more later to set sail again.

                Tino passed Peter down into Berwald's waiting arms, then leapt overboard and landed in the surf. It hadn't looked so deep on the Alphas, but he sunk to his shoulders before his feet found purchase on the sand bottom. He felt like a pup as he half-swam to shore beside Andrias, who was only nine-years-old and already nearly Tino's height.

                "At least the wind will dry our clothes quickly," he noted, shielding his face against a gust of fine pebbles. It was very windy on shore.

                Together, the small company—Alpha-pups running ahead—walked inland until they reached the hot-spring, where they deposited their belongings and began removing layers of sodden clothes. Tino couldn't wait to sink himself in the inviting heat and soothing water of the natural hot spring, and to clean himself properly from head-to-toe with soap and oils. He couldn't wait to clean his clothes, too— _I never thought I'd be excited to do laundry_ —and hang them in a wind unsaturated by salt and sea-spray, excited for them to actually be _dry_ when he put them back on. And after the bathing and laundering was done, and provided there was wood to burn, sitting down by a real, roaring fire and eating a cooked meal that was not barley porridge, and then falling asleep on solid-ground. It sounded like a dream. A privilege they had not been allowed for weeks.

                _Thank-you_ , he prayed to the god of travellers, grateful for the small reprieve. Despite his Alpha-mate being a voyager, Tino had discovered quite early that he, himself, did not share Berwald's love of travel, and was glad to make a camp, even if only a temporary one.

                He was untying Peter's little smock, fighting the newborn's squirming protests, when he heard Emil's voice:

                "Um, Papa?" he said quietly, almost shyly to Bjørn. "Are we all going in together?"

                Tino followed the Omega-pup's line-of-sight and found Berwald, who had just pulled his shirt off overhead. Tino thought his Alpha-mate was rather handsome—a tall, broad-shouldered Alpha with a muscular torso baring lots of impressive old scars—but no doubt the Omega-pup felt otherwise. The way Emil's eyes darted anxiously back-and-forth was proof enough that he didn't want to share his bath with an adult Alpha, especially not one as stern and stoic as Berwald, who's look, Tino admitted, didn't invoke comfort in strangers. His silence and stiff formality was great for scaring off unwanted guests, but not ideal for making friends.

                Bjørn started to reply, but Mikkel's announcement interrupted:

                "Your family on that side, mine on this side," he said, pointing to a rather large, jagged boulder that served as a barrier. It sat crookedly near the centre of the pool, too tall to see over once the occupants were submerged.

                Emil looked doubtfully at his rowdy Alpha brothers and sighed.

                "I have a better idea," Tino dared. "Alphas on that side, Omegas on this side."

                "Problem solved," Bjørn agreed, speaking before Mikkel could protest. He strode passed his disgruntled Alpha-mate with a smirk.

                Mikkel and Berwald glared at their retreating backs, both feeling betrayed by his respective Omega, but Emil looked comforted, which Tino was glad for.

                They left the remainder of their clothes on the rocks, then Bjørn and Emil eased themselves in with blissful sighs and a soft purr from the pup. Bjørn habitually reached up for Peter and held the newborn while Tino navigated the slippery rocks. Then Tino retrieved his Alpha-pup, sat back, and bobbed Peter up-and-down, his pudgy legs wind-milling over the surface as he giggled. The sight and sound made Tino's heart feel light, and even Emil laughed at the newborn's naive delight. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, relaxing, then began the rejuvenating process of cleaning oneself of weeks of soiled ship-life. It was certainly not a bath in rose water, but once his nose acclimatized to the offending sulfuric scent, Tino sent another prayer of gratitude skyward. Emil hugged his knees to his chest and sat obediently while Bjørn finger-combed soap through his locks, loosening the matted braids and tangles. Tino only then realized how long their hair was, since Mikkel's family kept their blonde—and jet-black; little Kujâk was an anomaly—hair pulled up most of the time. He wondered if it was a cultural custom and asked Bjørn.

                "I suppose so," Bjørn replied, basing his logic on the fact that Berwald and Tino wore their hair short. "Do all North-Easterners keep their hair short, likes yours?"

                "Most do, yes," Tino nodded.

                Bjørn's long locks were beautiful, but also a lot of effort to maintain, and Tino couldn't help but imagine the repeated annoyance of washing, brushing, braiding, and treating for lice. When he said this, Bjørn laughed—actually, _genuinely_ laughed. Tino just stared at him in disbelief.

                "What?" Bjørn asked.

                "Nothing, I just..." Tino grinned. "I didn't realize you had a sense of humour."

                Bjørn splashed him in mock-offense, careful not to hit Peter. Emil giggled.

                "Do you really think I've lived with Mick for twenty-five years without a sense of humour?" he countered.

                Tino considered that, the big, exuberant pack-leader with the explosive emotions, good and bad, and ceded defeat. "Good point," he said.

                Emil agreed by saying: "Dad's just an overgrown Alpha-pup. Most of the time," he added, quieter.

                "You love him, don't you?" It was less a question and more an observation on Tino's part. "Both of you do."

                Emil hesitated, then nodded bashfully. Bjørn said: "Very much."

                "I thought so. It's not hard to see. It's nice," Tino smiled. "Too many Omegas are afraid of their Alphas."

                "Too many Omegas have good reason to be."

                Tino's smile fell into pensiveness. He held Peter against his chest, letting the newborn nose his neck, tasting the cloudy water with his little pink tongue. "Yes," he said softly, taking a long enough pause to draw Bjørn's curiosity.

                "It's not Berwald you're thinking of, is it?" he guessed. Emil stayed obediently quiet, pretending not to listen. "You love Berwald," Bjørn said when Tino didn't. "You admire him, you care for him. He's not the Alpha who puts that scared look on your face."

                "Scared?" Tino glanced up. Only then did he realize he had been looking down. "I don't know what you're..."

                Bjørn's facial muscles didn't appear to change, but his expression did. Maybe it was his eyes, which suddenly seemed to say: _Just what do you take me for_?

                "I don't know what happened to you, Tino," he said. "I don't know why you think you need to hide behind a submissive smile when you're with anyone but Berwald, and I won't ask you," he promised. "It's your secret to keep. But if you do want to tell," he paused, eyeing Tino with sincerity, "Emil and I are excellent secret-keepers."

                Tino nodded, but didn't speak. Bjørn dressed Emil's hair in a dozen twisted braids, tying it all into a crown at the nape of his neck, while Tino sat lost in thought, absently rubbing Peter's back. The wind blew, carrying the sounds of waves and gulls but not conversation. Every so often Tino would hear a howl or bark from yonder, where the Alpha-pups played, Kujâk talking in the garbled tongue of an excited four-year-old: " _Look_ , _Dad_! _Look at what I can do_!" but otherwise it was quiet, neither adult Alpha speaking to the other. It was funny, Tino thought, that the Omegas could hear the Alphas speaking, but the Alphas couldn't hear the Omegas, even in such close proximity.

                _What an awful weakness to have_ , he thought, knowing that he would feel defenceless without his ears. They had saved him too many times before.

                "I was born in the Eastern Empire," he blurted.

                The words were out before he could reconsider. He had never spoken them aloud before, never told his life-story to anyone, not even Berwald. _And isn't that sad_? he thought, feeling loneliness in his heart. To think that no one, not even his loving Alpha-mate, knew the truth about who he was made him feel very alone. Shyly he lifted his eyes to Bjørn's and saw the other Omega staring back, tentative, but patient, just waiting for Tino to continue. It was then that Tino knew if he didn't tell Bjørn now, then he would never tell anyone ever, and he wanted to tell. Suddenly, he wanted someone to know.

                _Someone should know the truth_ , he decided, and started again:

                "I was born in a village on the far-eastern boarders of the North-East, a satellite state of the Eastern Empire. The Tsar's army had taken it during my grandparents' lifetime, before my Omega-mother was born. It was a fishing village, very small, and my grandparents chose each other to pair-bond with, but by the time my Omega-mother was of-age, the Eastern Empire's mating-laws had been established and her Alpha-mate was chosen by the State. He was an Alpha from the East. My Alpha-father," he said, swallowing the unfamiliar word, "though I never met him. He was a soldier like all the rest, and he died not long after he and my Omega-mother were pair-bonded. A few months later, I was born, and a few months after that my mother ran away. She was only fifteen, still young enough to be given again, likely to a widower much older than she. She never talked of my Alpha-father, but I got the feeling he had a lot to do with her not wanting to ever be mated again.

                "Mama lived with a gypsy caravan for a while, then she found a family in need of a wet-nurse and decided to stay in their village. We lived there until I was eight—your age, Emil. We weren't wealthy and winters were hard. I had to beg for food more often than not, because we had no Alpha to provide for us. No Alpha to _protect_ us," he stressed. Mama taught me submission. We had no status in the village, so we had to be useful. We had to endear ourselves to the pack's Alphas, enough for them to pity us, to show us charity, but not enough to draw attention from them or their Omega-mates. It was lonely," he admitted. "No one spoke to us, no one bothered with us. We begged work and were then forgotten once the job was done. Sometimes I wonder if I could've had friends if it wasn't for Mama constantly reminding me how sub-human we were, no better than slaves to our betters. I wish..." Tino sighed. "I wish she'd had more courage, but then I feel guilty for blaming our situation on her. She'd had the courage to run away from the East, and that's more than most people have."

                "What happened?" Bjørn asked. "Is that village where you met Berwald?"

                "No," Tino shook his head. "But it _is_ where I met the Oxenstierna clan—or, a raiding-party of them, at least. They came to the village one day demanding a protection tax, and when the pack-leader refused to pay, they attacked. A lot of people were killed, my mother included. When the pack-leader finally yielded, it was too late. The leader of the Oxenstierna pack took everything they had, including all of the pack's young Omegas, which included me. I was taken to live in the capital of the Oxenstierna clan, but, aside from not having my Omega-mother, my life didn't really change. I still worked and served, like I always had, and no one paid attention to me.

                "No one—until Jens Oxenstierna."

                "Papa," said Emil, standing abruptly. His words came out fast. "I'm too hot, I'm getting out now."

                Bjørn nodded in understanding.

                Tino felt bad for scaring the poor Omega-pup with Jens' name—the Alpha who had attacked his family. He felt guilty for ripping into an unhealed wound, but he wanted Bjørn to know. He and Berwald had been travelling with the North-Westerners for a fortnight, keeping to themselves, or helping with menial tasks, and never causing a fuss unless it was for Peter's sake, but Mikkel's temper had not simmered. He still snapped at Berwald, still growled at him unprovoked. He was still weary of his intentions, blatant as they were, and kept his pups at a distance. He was affable toward Tino, but he didn't trust Berwald, and that hurt Tino a lot. He hated that Mikkel associated Berwald with Jens, blood-relation or not. Berwald was _nothing_ alike Jens, and Tino was determined to prove it.

                "When we met," said Bjørn once Emil had dressed and left, "you said _we have no love for Jens Oxenstierna_."

                Tino nodded, remembering it.

                "Why?" Bjørn asked.

                The doe-eyed Omega pursed his lips; hugged his newborn. _I want them to know. I_ need _them to know that we're not like him._

                "Because," he said, staring at the cloudy water, "what Jens tried to do to you... he succeeded in doing to me.

                "I was young and scared when I was taken to the Oxenstierna capital. I think I was always scared back then, whether I knew it or not. I didn't know how _not_ to be scared, how _not_ to be a slave. So, when the Clan Leader's Alpha-pup took a liking to me, I was flattered. He wasn't kind, exactly. Jens had never been kind. But he noticed me. He paid attention to me. He _spoke_ to me, sometimes touched me. It was..." Tino cringed, pained by the memory and disgusted by the description he was about to use: "...nice. To have someone as strong as he acknowledge my existence was like a dream. By the time I was fourteen I was madly in love with him," he said, his cheeks heating in shame. "I knew that I couldn't compete for him. The Clan Leader's heir would never choose a half-Eastern slave. I wasn't foolish enough to think I would ever be his Omega-mate, but the way he treated me confused me. Not kindly—never kind," he repeated, "but his words and touches and attention was more validation than I had ever had in my life, so when he said sweet things to me, I believed him. When he made promises to me, I _wanted_ to believe him so badly that I... I..."

                It had been nine years since that awful, frightful night, but Tino's eyes still filled with tears when he spoke of it now, maybe because he had _never_ spoken of it before. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to picture the night his virginity was forcibly taken, but it was useless. He would never forget that horror as long as he lived.

                He didn't realize he was whimpering until a calm, cool voice said: " _Hush_."

                Tino opened his eyes to find Bjørn sitting beside him. He didn't offer Tino a soothing word or an embrace; no invasive questions, or awkward touching. Instead he let Tino come to him. Like an Omega-father, he was simply there when needed, letting Tino inch close enough to rest his head carefully on Bjørn's shoulder. Peter stirred and began to lick water-beads from Bjørn's skin in exploration, but the North-Westerner didn't appear to mind. He tilted his head so that it was braced against Tino's, like two pups in a nest. It wasn't the enveloping protection of an Alpha-mate, but it was just as effective in a softer, quieter, more companionable way. The weight was soothing.

                Tino's tears continued to flow, but so did his words:

                "I let myself believe that Jens wanted to claim me, but I was wrong. He just wanted to mate me. It took me a long time to realize it, but when I finally did, when I tried to stop him, I couldn't. He was too strong, already sixteen-years-old, and I had always been small for my age. I cried and begged him to stop, but he didn't. He mated me and then told everyone about it afterward. They called me a lot of things—nobody would believe it was rape. Everyone had seen me fawning over him for years. The Alphas just laughed, and the Omegas criticized me for trying to seduce their Clan Leader's heir. They thought I had spread my legs for him and was now angry he had rejected me. I had had a few prospects before Jens—never high-status Alphas, but older, widowed Alphas who had voiced an interest in having me for his second Omega-mate—but after that night, no one wanted me. I was only fourteen, but already I had no hope of finding an Alpha-mate in the clan. Jens had ruined me, and I almost destroyed myself because of it," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I tried to drown myself. I jumped off a cliff into the water, but a pack of fishermen pulled me out. They took me back to the Clan Leader and made me stand there in front of everyone, dripping and shivering and crying. I was sure I would be exiled, and I might have been, if not for Berwald.

                "He was the Clan Leader's nephew, Jens' cousin. He was sixteen, and had been away learning to voyage with his late-Alpha-father's crew. I had only seen him a few times before, on festival days, but I was afraid of him. Even as a pup he was big and stern. A lot of Omegas were timid of him—I laugh when I think of that now," he said, hiccupping a chuckle, "because Berwald is the kindest, sweetest, most selfless Alpha in the whole godsdamned world.

                "He knew who I was— _what_ I was—but he stepped out of the crowd. He didn't care what they thought of him, or what they would say. He didn't care how it would affect his status in the clan hierarchy. He looked his uncle right in the eye, and said: _I'll take him._

                "And that was it, just three words. At first I thought he meant to take me into the forest, escort me into exile. Then I realized the truth, that he had just promised himself to me; promised to be my Alpha-mate and protect me and provide for me and give me a place to belong. We were pair-bonded that night, though no one but the Clan Leader was there to witness it, and we were mated the following week when I was in Heat. And... we've been together ever since."

                "Why did he do it?" Bjørn asked.

                Tino delayed his reply, trying to hear judgement or scorn in Bjørn's tone. He sat up and wiped his face, trying to see disgust in the Omega's violet eyes, but he didn't, because it wasn't there. Bjørn merely stared at him, looking as he always did, almost bored if not for the tightness of his lips and the intense focus of his gaze.

                "I asked myself that same question for a long, long time," he admitted, no longer touching but staying close to Bjørn. "Even after we were mated I still didn't believe that Berwald wanted me—that he _could_ want me. I thought Jens had ruined me, and I felt guilty for ruining Berwald's life as well. He could've had any Omega he wanted, but he chose me, to save me. I tried to be grateful to him. I tried so hard to be a good, obedient Omega-mate, but I'm afraid I lost my temper more than once, and every time I did I feared he would revoke his vows and cast me out. He didn't, of course. Actually, he told me later that the first night I screamed at him was the moment he realized for certain that he loved me. He said he had never believed I was the meek little servant I pretended to be, that I had always had strength in me. It was the first time anyone had ever called me _strong_." He smiled. "But it still took me two years to accept that it was love between us and not pity or charity or obligation on his part."

                "And your part—? You loved him, too," Bjørn guessed.

                "Yes. He gave me a home and he wanted me for me. What more could anyone ask for? I think I was a fool not to realize it sooner."

                "Sixteen isn't so old," said Bjørn sagely, leaning back.

                Tino chuckled and readjusted Peter's sleeping weight—awake and lively one moment, dead-asleep the next. "How old were you," he asked, "when you realized you loved Mikkel?"

                "Eight."

                " _Eight_?"

                This time, Bjørn laughed. "Yes, I was eight when I finally knew what to call it, but I've never not loved him."

                "Twenty-five years is a long time," Tino acknowledged, feeling a little jealous. He and Berwald had only been together for nine.

                "It is," Bjørn agreed, "but the number of years isn't what matters."

                Tino waited for Bjørn to finish the thought, but he didn't. He just closed his eyes and sighed contentedly, as if nothing but the present mattered.

                Tino smiled and followed his example in agreement, saying: "Yes, you're absolutely right."

* * *

 _Ouch_!" Kujâk yipped. "Da-ad!"

                "Well, if you'd just keep still," Mikkel argued, trying to comb through Kujâk's tangled locks, "it wouldn't hurt so much. Just sit— _Oops_."

                Kujâk whined and arched his shoulders, his head bowed and bottom lip upturned in a pout. Mikkel rolled his eyes and tried to gather the pup's thick, unruly hair into a ponytail.

                "Papa's better at braiding than you," Kujâk mumbled sulkily, then suddenly erupted into a fit of giggles when Mikkel began to tickle him.

                "Oh, is that so? Is that what you think?" he teased, wrestling the squirming, sputtering pup. "Well, Papa's not here to save you, wee puffling. You're at my mercy!" He growled playfully as he lifted Kujâk up by the waist. Then he tossed him gently, provoking a gleeful shriek and a large splash, which drenched Berwald, who was sitting opposite.

                The North-Easterner smiled privately, thinking of the day Peter would be old enough to teach and play-fight with, provoking yelps of concern from his protective Omega-father. He could already hear Tino's scolding voice: _Don't teach him that_ , _it's dangerous_! and he chuckled. He was eager for their sea journey to end so that they could establish a home and start raising their adopted Alpha-pup properly, without scrutiny and the threat of infanticide; without the looming danger of Jens.

                Berwald still remembered the sneer on his cousin's face when he brought Peter home, the same pitiful doubt he had received from his shipmates when he had taken the orphan Alpha-pup from the Islander pack. "Just leave him, he's an islander," they said discriminately, telling Berwald the pup's blood was weak and worthless; telling him Peter wouldn't survive the voyage back east, it was kinder to let him starve. But Berwald ignored them, even the ones whose advice was well-meaning. The moment he had heard the newborn's frightened cry, he had wanted to rescue him from the Reaper's scythe. The moment he had stepped into the hut and saw Peter's birth-parents slaughtered, the house ransacked, and the little bundle crying in the corner, he had wanted to soothe him, protect him. The moment he had looked upon the little round face, pink and wet with tears, his blue eyes shining big and bright, he had fallen in love and knew exactly what he was supposed to do. Call it fate or divine intervention or blind good-luck, Berwald didn't know and didn't care. He lifted the newborn into his arms and knew then that he was the undeniable answer to his and Tino's prayers; the answer to their nine barren years. He remembered how Peter had ceased wailing the moment Berwald lifted him to hold, his tiny nose twitching in curiosity. He remembered the feel of that nose pressed gently to his. His shipmates scoffed and made jokes—always out of Berwald's reach—but the new Alpha-father paid them no mind. He recruited the aid of a nursing Omega, whom his shipmate had gotten pregnant, but when Peter was not feeding Berwald was holding him and guarding him. It was a long, stormy voyage, but he would deliver his pup— _their_ pup—safely to Tino if it was the last thing he did.

                Tino's face was the other memory he would never forget. He had come down to the water to welcome back the voyagers, like everyone else, his round eyes frantically searching the crowd for his Alpha-mate, always afraid that, one day, he might not come home. His back was turned when Berwald approached, but the sound of his Alpha-mate's deep voice quickly drew his attention. He smiled and habitually reached out to embrace Berwald, but stopped short when he saw the newborn cradled in the Alpha's arms. His big, pale eyes darted from Peter to Berwald and back in disbelief, distrust. " _Berwald_ —?" he whispered, daring to hope. Berwald had smiled and placed Peter in Tino's shaking arms. "This is Peter," he had said, "our Alpha-pup." Tino had cried for a week following the sudden adoption, bursting into joyful tears whenever he looked at his beautiful little newborn, whenever he looked at his Alpha-mate. Berwald had never seen him smile so much.

                " _Thank-you_ ," Tino had said, kissing Berwald over-and-over. " _Thank-you so much_!"

                It had been perfect, for a time. Berwald had had everything he had ever wanted—a home, a mate, a family, a place where he finally felt he belonged.

 _I will again_ , he promised himself. _We will_ , _together. We'll find a new home_ , _a home that's just ours. A home where my Omega-mate and pup don't have to be afraid._

                "You're really starting to creep me out."

                Berwald looked up. Mikkel was staring glibly at him, an eyebrow cocked.

                "Do you and your Omega-mate even talk, or do you just sit there staring at each other all day?" he criticised.

                Berwald frowned. "I didn't realize you wanted a conversation with me so badly. All the glaring and growling really threw me off."

                On-cue, Mikkel's throat rumbled. "There is nothing I want from the likes of _you_!" he spat.

                Berwald tolerated the annoyance of Mikkel and his verbal abuse, but he was genuinely hurt by the looks of distrust on Andrias and Kujâk's faces, provoked by their Alpha-father's prejudice as he pulled them away from the North-Easterner, as if Berwald might unexpectedly attack. He wanted to defend himself to the pups, if not Mikkel, and promise to never harm them; to tell them that he, too, was an Alpha-father who dearly loved his family, but it was useless. His words would be wasted as long as they lived beneath the influence of Mikkel's fear and anger, as long as they remembered Jens. The distance they had crossed was not enough to soften their memory when they spent every day aboard living-proof of their exile. He thought of Andrias, who understood what had happened, and of little Kujâk who did not, both scared of what they did and didn't know. And Berwald couldn't blame them, or Mikkel. His blood-scent was the same as a rapist, and if his and Mikkel's positions had been switched—if it had been his Omega-mate ravished and his pup endangered—he would be angry, too.

                The truth was, he _was_ angry, and he always would be for what his greedy cousin had done to Tino. A part of him was jealous of Mikkel for murdering Jens, because it was something that he had failed to do for nine long years, and even now, looking at Mikkel's burning blue eyes, it wasn't dislike or distrust that permeated his thoughts. It was a regret: _It should've been me. I should've been the one to tear him apart._

                Perhaps it was that thought, that malignant look, that made Andrias and Kujâk so nervous.

                Berwald sighed. He loved pups, but had never been good with them. They were always too afraid of him.

                Wordlessly, he climbed out of the hot-spring.

* * *

Emil kicked a stone and watched a flock of gulls take flight in alarm. Then he pried a weathered stick from beneath a rock and dragged it behind him on the shore. It was sandier here than where the knaar was anchored. If it was a nicer day, and if he had not just bathed, he would have considered a swim. Instead he unlaced his boots, rolled his trouser-legs up, and waded into the cold water, ankle-deep, then knee-deep, then ankle-deep again until he stood on a shallow sandbar a dozen paces from the beach. A harsh wind tore through his clothes, but his wet braids bound his hair at his neck, preventing tangles. The wind and waves roared in his ears, deafening him, but he still had his eyes and nose and hands to explore the uncharted isle. Behind him, the steam of the hot-spring puffed skyward; in front of him, the sea stretched endlessly to the horizon. He wondered how much longer it would be before they reached the Isles, a place Emil knew by poet's tales only; a place even his voyaging Alpha-father had only visited once, long before he and his brothers were born.

                He sighed deeply, breathing in the familiar scent of salt and sand and seaweed, hoping that Mikkel would let them stay here for a little while. Bjørn was going to be in Heat soon, and Emil didn't want to be aboard the ship when it happened. (He doubted anyone did.) Besides, he liked the wide-open space of the rocky island. He liked having the freedom to run and stretch and escape his Alpha brothers—one loud, the other condescending. And it would be nice to have another bath again so soon.

                Emil fished a stone from the sand, wiped it off, then whipped it into the water with a wish. It skipped twice. Then he turned around—

                —and screamed.

* * *

Berwald was tying his trousers when he heard Emil's scream. It was faint beneath the roaring wind, crashing surf, and bubbling hot-spring, but it was distinctly an Omega-pup's terrified cry for help.

                " _Em_!" Mikkel yelled in alarm, but he was submerged, naked, and crowded by his Alpha-pups. He started to stand, but slipped on the rocks.

                Berwald was already running.

                Barefoot, he tore through the rocky field and reeds that grew on the dunes. The wind was blowing off-shore, blinding his nose, but his eyes saw a longboat and a scouting pack of Alphas on the otherwise deserted beach. One was kneeling in the boat; one was holding a fishing-net and a knife; and the last was dragging Emil across the beach as the Omega-pup fought.

                " _Dad_! _Dad_ , _help_!" he screamed, twisting and pulling and digging his bare heels into the sand, but to no avail. He stumbled and fell, yelling: " _No—no_! _Get off of me_! _Please let me go_!

                " _Dad_!" he cried, before his captor descended on him. He yanked off his bandana and shoved it in Emil's open mouth, tying it at the back of his head. It stopped his screams, but not his protests. The Alpha by the longboat tossed his companion a length of rope to bind Emil's flailing hands.

                Berwald was close enough to smell the Alphas, now; and they to smell him. The fisherman with the knife saw him first and yelled a warning, then lunged at Berwald in attack. Berwald absorbed the blow and shoved forcibly back, grappling with the knife-bearer while the other hefted Emil over his shoulder. He reached the longboat and dumped Emil inside, then turned back with a spear in his hand. Berwald thrust his knee into the knife-bearer's belly, knocking him back. He grabbed the Alpha's wrist and jerked it violently, hearing a distinct crack followed by a howl of pain. The knife fell from his hand, but the spear pierced Berwald's side. He grimaced and lost his footing, staggering in the sand. But the longboat was leaving shore, the Alpha inside rowing frantically for the safety of a larger ship. It looked like a fishing vessel, but an old one; a crippled one. There was probably only one, maybe two others on-board, and not a real warrior amongst them: just a haggard crew of desperate fishermen lucky to find a young Omega all alone on an empty beach. Berwald didn't know if they planned to sell Emil, enslave him, or mate him, but it didn't matter because they would never get the chance. He wouldn't let them.

                A beastly growl bellowed from his throat and he hit the spear-bearer so hard the Alpha's feet left the ground. He fell hard and didn't stir. The other, defenceless without his knife, raised his fists to fight, but Berwald dodged the meager attack and grabbed the Alpha's shirt-collar. He jerked him forward, growled loudly, and then raised his fist to serve a fatal blow, but hesitated when he saw regret in the other's starving eyes; eyes full of fear and desperation. He chose mercy and, instead of beating the Alpha to death, challenging his warrior's strength against a hungry fisherman, he used his greater weight to lift the other and hurl him across the sand. Then, staggering, absently pressing a hand to his bloody side, he charged into the surf.

                "Here, take him— _just fucking take him_!" the rower yielded, but Berwald's advance didn't slow. The sight of Emil, bound and gagged, fuelled his anger.

                _I won't let him take you_ , _little pup. I'll get you back to your family._

                When Berwald grabbed the longboat's stern, the rower panicked and threw Emil overboard. Berwald cursed him and let go, diving to rescue the sinking pup.

                "It's okay, now, I've got you," he said, breaking the surface, holding Emil against his chest. The Omega-pup was trembling violently, his eyes wide and tearful. He looped his arms over Berwald's head and pressed his face to the Alpha's throat as Berwald returned to shore.

                " _Em_!"

                Mikkel—half-dressed; skin flushed—crashed into the surf to meet Berwald, who pushed Emil into his arms. " _Oh_ , _sweetheart. Oh_ , _my wee puffling_ , _I'm sorry. I'm so_ , _so sorry_ ," he gasped, kissing Emil's head and cheeks. He set Emil down on the beach and ripped off the bandana. Emil gasped and choked, then whined sadly and started to sob. He clutched his Alpha-father for safety as Mikkel undid the ropes chafing his slender wrists. "It's okay," he soothed, rubbing Emil's back. "It's okay, now, you're safe. Em, it's all okay."

                Berwald stood watching for a moment, relieved the Omega-pup was safe.

                Then he collapsed in the sand.

* * *

Tino rushed to the beach as fast as he could while toting a newborn and a toddler. He pulled poor little Kujâk along by the hand and insisted that Andrias "keep up!", afraid to let any of them out of his sight since Emil's scream. Bjørn had gone on ahead of them, racing off after tugging on his smock. Tino could hear his frantic voice in the distance, calling: " _Emil_!"

                "What happened?" asked Kujâk, confused, tripping over his feet. "Is Em okay?"

                "I don't know," Tino replied.

                By the time Tino and the pups reached the beach, Bjørn was sitting in the sand with Emil in his arms, gently rocking the distraught Omega-pup back-and-forth. Mikkel was stooped a few paces away, covered in Berwald's blood.

                " _What are you doing_?" Tino gasped, letting go of Kujâk. He ran clumsily to Berwald's side and, one-handed, shoved Mikkel away. " _Get away from him_!" he growled, showing his teeth in threat.

                "Tino—" Mikkel started, but Tino clawed at him.

                " _Get away_!" He growled again, placing himself protectively in front of his Alpha-mate. Peter started to cry.

                " _Tino_."

                This time, the raspy voice came from behind him, and Berwald's hand closed around his leg. Tino froze. He looked from Mikkel to Bjørn to his bloodied Alpha-mate and felt so confused. _What happened_? Emil was soaked and sobbing; Berwald was injured; Mikkel's hands were coated in Berwald's blood. Then he saw the two strangers lying in the sand, both unconscious, and the fishing vessel bobbing off-shore, and he shook his head. He saw the broken spear shaft and looked closer at Berwald's side.

                "A-A-Are you okay?" he gasped, falling to his knees. Berwald's side was red; his face was deathly-white. "You need stitches," Tino said, mechanical in worry. "I-I-I—I need to stitch you up."

                Berwald nodded. He was breathing too heavily, too slowly to speak. His eyelids drooped, but he took Tino's hand and squeezed in wordless reassurance.

                Tino let Andrias take Peter, the Alpha-pup bouncing the crying newborn in a way that proved he had soothed younger siblings before. Then Tino pressed himself to Berwald's side, pulling his arm over his shoulders, and tried to lift him, but buckled lopsidedly beneath the Alpha's weight.

                "Here, let me," Mikkel intervened. He crouched, then waited for Berwald's hands to find purchase on his shoulders. He tucked his arms under the North-Easterner's legs and then carried him back to the hot-spring like two overgrown pups playing piggyback. Tino hurried at his heels, his heart bruising his ribcage in panic.

                "Breathe, my love. Deep breaths," he coached, staying close by Berwald's side as Mikkel let him down into a makeshift bed of sheets and clothes, the laundry Tino had been so eager to do. Bjørn brought a sewing kit and Mikkel fetched their last barrel of beer to drench Berwald's wound, then Tino set to work stitching him, keeping up a soothing narrative as he did. His hands were steady as he sewed, but the moment he was done, cutting the thread with Bjørn's fish-knife, he began shaking. Bjørn hovered and handed Tino linen to bandage Berwald, but Mikkel kept his distance until Berwald was breathing regularly, if deeply. His brow was creased in bewilderment, but Mikkel's royal-blue eyes were stern and downcast, his posture rigid. He looked from his pups—Andrias holding Peter; he and Kujâk flanking Emil like guard-dogs—to Bjørn, who was removing sullied linens, and finally to Berwald, bypassing Tino altogether. It was a long, tense minute before he knelt, unblinking, and said:

                "Why?"

                Berwald stared wearily at him. Tino wrapped an arm protectively around his Alpha-mate, distrusting Mikkel.

                "Why did you do that?" the North-Westerner elaborated. He sounded confused. "Why endanger yourself for my family?"

                "Because..." Berwald said, his voice laboured. With effort, he lifted his hand and held it out. "...I am not my blood, Mikkel. ...I am not your enemy."

                Tino waited anxiously for Mikkel to reply, to accept the extended friendship. Bjørn, too, stopped to watch the exchange.

                Mikkel took a long time to decide, unsympathetic to Berwald's struggle, but decide he did. He glanced over at his teary-eyed Omega-pup, who was scared, but safe and unmolested, and then firmly grasped Berwald's hand.

                "Okay," he said gruffly through his teeth. He squeezed Berwald's hand hard. Then repeated, softer: " _Okay_."


End file.
